


The cormorant and the robin

by J_Antebellum



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M, Post Lethal White
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2019-07-14 22:13:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 49,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16049621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Antebellum/pseuds/J_Antebellum
Summary: First post-Lethal White fanfic, starts immediately where the book left it. Focused majorly in Strike and Robin's personal lives and relationship, deals with their love story more than with their investigations.





	1. Chapter 1

_September 8 th 2012._

Strike made his way down Octavia Street in the middle of a strong rainfall as the skies of London burst open, dark grey clouds covering the sky and lighting falling at times over the thundering city. It was, in Strike's opinion, both a scary and beautiful spectacle, like seeing beasts tackle their meals, and it reminded Strike how they were nothing, nothing at all, under the forces of nature. The same forces of nature that were giving them such a storm had been the ones to put Robin in front of a barrel or Jack under a sepsis, just months previously.

As Strike's hairy fist raised to press the doorbell to Nick and Ilsa's, he felt the house had a lot of noise inside. Not fighting noise, but life. He frowned lightly, knowing his best friends were very calm people, not the kind to make much noise, but before he could make any conjectures and as the rain hammered furiously against his umbrella, the door opened and a weight fell against his legs. Strike could only hear 'Uncle Corm!' and see a bit of dark, curly hair, that reminded him of his mother, launch at him.

“Jack!” Strike smiled, patting his head. “What a nice surprise!” and this time, he meant it. Ever since Jack's almost death, Strike had done plenty of reflections and discovered, to his surprise, how much it truly mattered to him knowing his nephews, sister and brother-in-law were alright, and had resolved to be a better uncle and brother. He had always ignored his nephews and done an awful job at being a more understanding brother, but now he remembered how much he had needed his uncle and aunt to be so good to him all his life, or else, he didn't know what would've been of him. Now he was determined to take the good example and be as important to his nephews as his own uncle had been to him. Not just because it had been scary to see how he had taken all the good things for granted and it was actually so easy to loose them, but because he had realised, with painful honest to himself, that he would feel terrible if his nephews, the day he died, remembered him with the same indifference as he remembered his father. Strike had had incredible family being perfect for him, mother, sister, everyone. He ought to be better.

“Look, Uncle Corm, I got a cool scar!” Jack lifted his jumper to reveal his abdomen scar as they entered the house. “My friends think it's badass!”

“Well, it is,” Strike closed the door and ruffled Jack's hair, impressed with his newfound discovery of how similar to Leda Jack was. “Every scar tells a story, Jack; it says you survived something bad. That's very badass, don't you think?” Jack grinned from ear to ear, and Strike could tell he was thrilled with how his uncle was being lately.

“When can we go to the museum, Uncle?” Jack asked then, trotting after him as Strike walked inside the house. “To see all the war things?”

“Next week, if your mum lets you,” Strike vowed. “I'll clear my schedule out and we'll spend a whole day together, just you and me. We can even go to the movies if you want, eat fast food without mum and dad complaining. How does that sound?” Strike looked back and saw Jack's eyes shine with excitement.

“For real?!” Jack almost shouted. “That'd be awesome!” Strike snorted a laugh and nodded, marvelled at how easy it was to make him happy with things he actually enjoyed. He had been meaning to lose weight, and had achieved a good portion of that, but it would just be one day.

“I'll even get to show you my new BMW, and you can sit on the front with me.” Strike added cheerfully, only to get him more excited.

Strike and the little boy entered the large dining room of the Herberts, and Strike stopped in the threshold for a moment. Robin was sitting, throwing her head back in laughter with her chin on a hand and her free hand around a glass of red wine on the table, Lucy sitting in front of her apparently saying something funny, also drinking wine. Nick stood nearby with a smirk as he listened white setting down the cutlery on the table and Ilsa stood, with a hand around her lower belly, by the corner of the table, as she put on it all the take-out for dinner.

“Hello Oggy!” Nick smiled at him. “Got some Doom Bar in the fridge, if you fancy!”

“That'd be great, thanks Nick,” Strike accepted a kiss on the cheek from Ilsa, who looked exceptionally cheerful. One of her cats ran between Strike's legs, exiting the room, and went to salute Lucy, who had gotten up to hug him.

“How's it going, Corm?” Lucy grinned, squeezing her big brother, big in all senses of the word. “Robin said the agency is thriving now.”

“Yeah, we can't complain. What do we owe the pleasure of your company, where's the rest of the clan?” he asked sitting next to Robin, in front of a seat Jack had just occupied, as Nick passed him a can of Doom Bar. Lucy's grin got bigger as she noticed he was, for once, not saying it with sarcasm.

“Greg had to go all the way to Liverpool for work, will be gone until Monday, and took Teddy,” Teddy was named after Uncle Ted, and was Lucy's eldest son, “with him, so I wouldn't be alone with the three. Besides, he was dying to see Liverpool, has been obsessed about the Beatles lately, and since he's a big boy now, he can behave while his dad works. Peter's camping all weekend as well, because of his best friend's birthday. The boy's family took him out camping and they invited Peter. They invited Jack as well, but I didn't feel right leaving him out of my sight just yet.” She added with an affectionate hand caressing the back of Jack's hair.

“I'm fine, mum,” Jack said for what sounded like billionth time, making Ilsa smile at him as she filled his plate.

“Anyway, Ilsa called me before to ask for Jackie's health, and when I told her we were alone for the weekend, she told me Robin and you were coming and invited us as well.” Continued Lucy, cutting the chicken out of Jack.

“So how're you doing, soldier?” added Strike, smirking at his nephew. The table seemed surprised and sweetened with his affection towards his beaming nephew, although Strike didn't notice.

“I'm great!” Jack said excitedly. “Although it sucks to have missed so much this summer. Dad didn't let me play football at all until last week. Did you play football when you were my age, Uncle Corm?”

“Uh...” Strike reflected, thoughtful. He had moved so much during his childhood, he had barely had a chance to join any teams or play in the street. “Sure, during break at school, sometimes.”

“What position did you play?” asked Jack. “You would've been a great goalkeeper.” He added jokingly, stuffing chicken in his mouth.

“Sometimes, I was,” Robin looked at Strike, surprised and touched with his tenderness towards his nephew. “More often, I was forward. The others were so scared of me with my size, that they'd practically open the way for me to get to the goalposts.” Jack giggled, imagining it.

“Didn't you play football, mum?” Jack asked then, looking at his mother. “My friend Jenna plays football with us. She told me about England's National Women's team; apparently they're very good.”

“Well obviously girls play sports too, sweetheart,” Lucy explained kindly. “But no, I didn't play football. I liked to spend school breaks chatting with my friends or reading. Your uncle was very popular in school, while I was the introverted little sister.”

“Did you have many friends?” Jack wanted to know, suddenly curious.

“I wonder where he's gotten the love for questions from...” Nick said amused as he and Ilsa finally sat down, the first one next to Lucy, the other next to Ilsa.

“I had...” Lucy was suddenly speechless, and Strike knew why; she had always had it hard to make friends, although the few she had made, and she always made some, had been very nice people, but since they had travelled so much, it had been tricky to keep a steady amount of friends. “I guess I did. You know Uncle Corm and I travelled a lot with your grandma, we had to make friends all the time. Lost clue of what's happened to most of them by now, though.”

“That's sad,” Jack murmured, his mouth full like a squirrel.

“That's adulthood,” his mother pointed out. “Keeping friends from childhood like your uncle's done is a remarkable, although rare, achievement, that not everyone manages.”

“I'll keep mine forever,” Jack vowed. “So when I'm an adult I can have dinners like these with my friends and our children.”

“Already thinking of children, Jack?” inquired Nick, diverted, smiling at the boy as he too ate.

“Not much, but I suppose I'll have some, right? Mum would be a great grandma one day.”

“Aw, that's sweet, love,” Lucy kissed the top of his head. “For now, however, just enjoy being a kid, alright? Leave those concerns for later. I guarantee you, adulthood is full of big things.”

“Mum, is it alright if I go back to my film now?” Jack asked his mother, half plate still full. “I can't eat more...” Strike was expecting his sister to argue as usual, but she surprised him.

“Of course darling,” when Jack rushed out of the room, she added, towards Strike. “He was watching a movie before you came. Can't eat much yet, doctor said it's normal, so we just feed him a little bit, more times a day.” Strike nodded.

“Is it alright if I take him out on Friday? I promised an entire day of activities,” said Strike. “Including the museum and the movies.” Ilsa raised her eyebrows and Lucy almost dropped her glass, then beamed.

“Are you serious? I thought you were hoping he'd forgotten the museum thing!” Lucy said. Strike frowned, shrugging.

“No, Robin and I have just been busy, I didn't have the chance. But I suppose it'll be alright if I took Friday free.”

“Of course,” Robin agreed quickly. “You hardly take days free, go and have fun with Jack, we'll handle everything, Barclay and I.”

“See?” Strike looked satisfied. “All sorted, so if it's alright by you...”

“I'll be delighted, although he's going to be bloody excited all week,” Lucy beamed happily. “He's been telling all his friends how he was sick in the summer, but it was alright because his uncle was with him. He's been telling everyone you're the guy in the newspapers.” She looked almost emotional.

“Great! Then I'll pick him up Friday morning, early, so we have more time,” said Strike full of resolve. “He can sleep in my attic, I'll bring him back on Saturday morning, alright? I don't think any of us will be up for a trip to Bromley after a whole day walking around London.” Lucy grinned.

“That'll be perfect. Will you know what to do, though? You've never spent a full day with either of them.”

“I'll phone you if anything,” said Strike, shrugging. “Besides, you weren't much bigger than him when I took you all alone to places, if I managed that so young, this will be easy.”

“Who are you,” Nick looked at Strike. “And what've you done with my best mate?” Strike rolled eyes.

“What? Can't one be a nice uncle every now and then?” retorted Strike.

“Every uncle should,” Nick agreed. “But you don't even know the names of all your godchildren, and I highly doubt you know Jack's birthday date. We'll all pretty astonished here.”

“Nice change though,” Ilsa hurried to add for her husband. Strike then noticed she wasn't drinking alcohol, and he started putting the pieces up together.

“Nick's right, though. How long will this last before you get bored and Jack gets all...?” Lucy murmured, unsure. Strike tensed and set his glass back on the table with excessive force.

“I'm not going to get bored of Jack,” said Strike clearly, with a severe tone. “From now on, I expect to be a present uncle. We've had Ted, I'm just trying to do half as nice job with my own nephews as he did with us.”

“And I love that, Stick, I really do. Excuse me, I'm just protective, I don't want you to bring his hopes up for nothing. It's not that I don't want to believe you, but I became a mother ten years ago, and you've never...” Lucy shrugged as if that finished the sentence, with a guilty look, as if she didn't want to say anything bad of her brother.

“Ten years ago,” said Strike, forgetting his food for a moment. “I was a soldier, and I wasn't even here to begin with. And after that, I've been far too busy trying not to be homeless.” He said softly, with a matter-of-fact tone, even if he knew that wasn't excuse of his negligence.

He could've still found time; he had done that, for all the girls he'd slept with, and everyone in the table knew. It was weird for Robin to think that ten years previously, as Strike was a grown-up soldier, she had only been a teenager, and she wondered if she would've found him as interesting as she did now, had they met then.

“I know, Stick. It's alright,” Lucy smiled kindly at him. “I know sometimes it takes a blow to open the eyes a little. It's a fucked-up truth, but truth nevertheless.” Strike looked at her surprised for a moment as, for the first time, he saw non-accusatory understanding in her eyes, as if she knew, without him telling, what had truly made him change his mind. What was weirder was seeing acceptance and understanding, instead of accusations, judgement and resentment. It was as if all Lucy had needed to respect his brother's lifestyle more had been to see him care for the things she cared for the most. “So Robin, dear,” Lucy quickly looked at Robin, with such fondness it also surprised Strike some, although he knew they had always gotten along. He had literally caught them laughing the first time they'd met, “please tell me you told Tom about Sarah and Matthew, ruin her as well, the damn bitch!” Robin laughed, and Strike was happy to feel it was a sincere laugh. Apparently before his arrival, Robin and Lucy had been catching-up.

“I wasn't going to,” Robin explained, and Strike looked attentive, as he hadn't found this information yet. “The news about the divorce have dispersed like lava, so soon everyone knew, even Tom. He suspected something, he always had really, and he came to the office once, coincidentally I had been alone. He told me to please tell him the truth, tell him if his fiancée was unfaithful, and I simply told him what I knew. Now he's called-off their engagement, and we go for a drink every once in a couple weeks or so. Funnily, even though I didn't like him much before, now we actually have fun together. I guess having our exes shag each other bonds.”

“I'm glad, it's sad for him as well,” Lucy said. “Did you sign the papers yet? I hope you've drained him properly.”

“No. Ilsa's got a friend who's dealing with it, they're not ready yet. Matthew and I had to meet to sort things out, as we had a joint bank account and the house, into which my family had put money...” Robin replied. “But it seems like now she'll be able to finish writing the papers. I know Matthew wants to depict me as a monster and I didn't want him to have the excuse, so I decided not to get until his last penny... but I'll get everything that's mine, and every penny that me and my family put in. Also, since he's scumbag, I made him agree to return until the last penny my parents invested into our wedding. It'll take him a while, but I feel terrible still knowing how much money my family invested for nothing, and I want to return it. My family invested more than his into the marriage, so it's only fair.”

“Luckily things will only go for better now,” Ilsa commented. “You're going to love living with Louis,” Louis Artchland was the gay close friend of Ilsa, an actor with whom Robin was going to be living from the following week onwards. They were old friends since university, as Louis had studied law for a couple years before he dropped it for acting, and their friendship had been strong over the years despite the time, as they had even shared a flat for several years before Ilsa and Nick had married, while Ilsa was still a student, “he's neat, he cooks like a chef, and he's caring and sweet.” It didn't surprise Robin, who had already met him a couple times for a drink and enjoyed spending time with him, but it was always nice to hear it from someone who knew him as well as Ilsa. “That said, he'll try to drag you to every Pride.” She added with a chuckle, and Robin giggled relaxedly.

“What's the hurt of partying and getting bit drunk?” Robin replied, cheerful. Then, with glistening eyes looking at Strike, she elbowed him playfully, with their newfound closeness, and added: “you should come with us next Pride then, bet all the gays will be drooling for you.” Everyone laughed and Strike shook his head with a chuckle.

“What would I be doing in the one place where I have absolutely no chance with most women?” replied Strike, making them laugh more. For Robin, on the other side, being surrounded by a majority of men who weren't interested in her in the slightest, was a pro. “Now,” he said, once the laughter had subsided. “Ilsa, when were you going to tell us you're pregnant?” he said. The way she had, and still did, cupped her belly, her lack of drinking, the gleefulness so present in her face.

Ilsa blushed and beamed at him.

“Everyone here knows already!” Ilsa chuckled at him. “We were waiting for you to detect it!” Strike grinned and reached to hug her.

“My most sincere congratulations,” said Strike squeezing her tightly. Ilsa let out a shaky breathe, almost crying of happiness, against his shoulder.

“Thank you,” when they separated so Strike could high five Nick, her eyes were still glassy.

“How far along?” asked Strike, sitting down again.

“Four months now,” said Ilsa. “We only noticed a month and a half ago though. The signs were there, but they've been before, so I didn't even pay attention. Doctor says it's all going very well, that we'll soon know the gender.”

“It feels a little like the universe is mocking us, though,” Nick commented, filling his glass of beer. “Right when we've accepted it'll never happened, relaxed, and stopped thinking about it... we didn't even want to mention it for weeks, in case we'd jinx it!”

“I told you it's all about relaxing,” said Lucy, putting an affectionate arm around Nick. “The less you obsess, the better.”

“Funniest part is, though,” said Nick, with a grin. “That we're all of the sudden going to be blessed with more than one kid.”

“The cats don't count,” Strike hurried to say.

“Not the cats, Oggy,” Ilsa smiled at his friend. “We had been trying for adoption for a long time, it's just so difficult, we were giving up on that as well. And then a couple weeks ago, we got the confirmation that we made it. In a couple weeks, we'll be picking-up Olive from the orphanage.” Obviously, it wasn't news for Robin and Lucy, who merely grinned happily, so Strike felt slightly aggravated he had been kept in the dark.

“Olive?” Strike asked, surprised.

“She's five,” said Nick. “We were aiming for kids of a certain age, because even though we know they're harder when adopted, they come with their own baggage, we felt adopting a baby at our age... well, it wasn't right for them.”

“Olive's a Londoner, apparently her mum was a teen who had run away from home when she found out she was pregnant, out of fear. She gave birth in the orphanage and then died,” said Ilsa, a little sad. “Poor Olive has been from foster family to foster family, but people usually want babies, not toddlers who remember their hellish life. We felt so sad for her, we couldn't wait to be a family all of us together, make her life better.”

“After all, we're just three people who have been trying to have a family for a long time, it felt meant to be,” Nick added. “Ilsa's mum said it very clearly; maybe some people aren't allowed to have biological children so someone remembers those kids that are abandoned, all alone. And Olive's a handful, she's shy, nervous around strangers, it's hard to earn her trust... but the people in the orphanage said they've never seen her be so friendly with any other parents before us.”

“And it felt right, the few times we've gone play with her,” commented Ilsa. “She's so sweet, she's made us drawings, and they told us she loves books, so we brought her a ton and she always wants us to read them to her. She loves it.”

“Are you sure you're ready for child traumas, though?” Lucy asked with a hint of concern. “You're going to have a newborn, and then this... Olive may be quite a handful.”

“It's alright. We refuse to shut the door on her now, just because Ilsa's pregnant. It's a blessing to always been wanting for a kid and suddenly have two... and if you think about it, no one really knows what their kids are going to be. For all we know, our youngest may be harder than the eldest.” Said Nick. “We asked Olive if she likes little children, if she'd like a little sibling one day. She already loves the cats, asks for videos of them constantly.”

“We told her, we could bring another child one day, aside from her, so she'd have someone else to play with,” elaborated Ilsa. “She seemed excited. She asked if it'd be like having a doll, loved the idea. Of course it's a bit anxious to make sure she'll be fine when the new baby comes around, that she doesn't feel neglected... but we're feeling lucky. We think it'll make her feel more like a big, nice family.”

“I think it's complete nuts,” Strike opined, looking incredulous. “But hey, I always imagined you'd be great parents. Olive and the littlest one will be lucky children.” Ilsa and Nick smiled at him.

“We suppose there's no need to ask if you'd be their godfather, right?” Nick asked.

“Me? Not Spanner?” asked Strike. Nick's little brother seemed more the traditional choice. “You've seen what I am with children.” Nick and Ilsa sniggered.

“Oh, we're sure it'll be alright. We'll bribe you,” offered Ilsa. Strike chuckled.

“In that case, I can't say no!”

 


	2. Charlotte's dead

****

As the five adults moved onto the sitting room, Jack asleep with his head on his mother's lap and his body curled-up on Strike's lap, they rejoiced on the mutual company, the sound of the storm outside, the murmur of the TV and the snacks the Herberts had brought in.

“Now that it comes to mind,” Lucy said all of the sudden, turning to look at Strike. “I read Charlotte's given birth to twins. Prematurely. She's in the ICU, seems the birth is complicated and she's not doing very well, have you gone visit her? At least the babies seem to be recovering, but for what I've read, Charlotte's... well...” Lucy grimaced a little. Despite her hatred towards who had been Strike's fiancée, she was a good person who wished nothing like death. “Let's just say they're not sure she'll ever get out of there.”

“That's right,” Nick murmured. “A friend of mine commented it with me the other day, he's one of Charlotte's nurses. Of course he couldn't say much, but I just asked him if the gossipers were right, and he said yes. It's all over the TV.” Strike scowled, took a long sip of his whiskey, conscious that everyone awake was observing him, and sighed. Robin had a concerned frown and, sitting on the other sofa with Nick and Ilsa, looked at him.

“I won't go visit her,” said Strike at last. “Charlotte set me up for an encounter over a month ago, before we resolved the case, I was investigating... she had been spying on me, knew where I'd be, set me up. And she didn't want to live. She didn't want to be a mother. She said she felt sorry for the children and that they'd be better off with their Ross grandma, who was already getting all excited or something. If Charlotte doesn't make it, will be because she doesn't want to. She would've killed herself already, if it hadn't been because she didn't wish to kill the babies.”

“What the heck?” Ilsa scowled, indignation written all over her face. “What did she think she was doing, going after you like that? Only for what, complain about her life? She chose it. She took the perfect opportunity to have the perfect husband, ruined it, like she ruins everything good she gets, and ended up in a shit situation she totally went for.”

Robin, who under other circumstances would feel she was intruding, now feel comfortable discussing Strike's private life. They had grown so close lately, and he had told her things she doubted anyone else knew. She hadn't even felt awkward when Ilsa and Lucy had commented on Strike and Lorelei's break-up hours previously, before Strike arrived. She looked intently at Strike, who for a moment looked troubled, with clouds into his eyes, and then saw them clear out as he made a decision, punctuated by a long, deep breath, he let out.

“Charlotte will, every chance she gets, try to convince me she was once pregnant with a child she claims was mine, of whom there were never proofs at all, who I doubt it ever existed, and she will always maintain she miscarried it, but that she'd want any child if it was mine,” Strike blurted out. For a moment, everyone seemed unable to breathe, looking at him with intensity and indignation as he looked down at Jack's body on his lap, a hand planted on the legs of the boy and another around his half-filled glass of whiskey. Robin saw him close the eyes for a moment, making a resolve. It was almost painful to see, being like seeing a man realize he has to stop trying to ignore a painful truth, and come to admit it out loud. “That's what broke us up. I realised the pregnancy was all a lie, and that even if it wasn't, she was, as much as she's always denied it, cheating with Jago and the baby would be his, and that's the one thing I can't forgive her for.” Lucy looked apprehensive, and reached a hand she ended up burying, unsure, in Strike's hair. He looked at her painfully, in a raw way that made Lucy frown and Robin's brows furrow just a bit, leaning towards them. “I know I should've listened. Everyone said she was trouble. Everyone. But, and as much as I'm going to echo mum now, I was in love with her, or at least, I felt for her the only thing I know as being in love, whether it's for real or not. I wanted a life with her. All those things you get indignant I don't have. A happy marriage, a place we could call home, a forever. I gave her my very best, for years, and it wasn't enough. But for sixteen years, I tried. I tried very hard.”

“Stick...” Lucy let a deep breath out and Robin felt obliged to look away. It seemed as if the siblings were about to share a moment of true honesty and heartfelt confessions, delayed by years of pride and weariness, and charged with affection and long-hidden feelings. “I'm sorry I... I thought what I needed to be okay was what we both needed. And I was wrong. I know you don't need a wife or children, the way I needed, and I'm sorry I bombarded you with that pressure... but Stick, when those become things you do want, you can't try to find them in someone like Charlotte. She's mentally ill. She's... she's not so different from Whittaker,” it felt as if Lucy was cursing when she said that name, as if it was difficult for her, and Strike's eyebrows raised slightly, briefly, almost unnoticed, in surprise. “She's poison. She's rotten, and let's hope her children are different, good... but this wasn't your fault, just like it wasn't mum's fault to be killed by Whittaker. Sometimes we just trust the wrong person, you know it. People who have fun taking advantage of other people's kindness and big hearts. And only someone with your big heart can give you a happy life. Anything else, would be like asking a lemon tree to give you strawberries. It could've never worked.”

“I know,” Strike blinked, and Robin saw the transformation from vulnerable to back into his normal self happen before her eyes. He cleared his voice, looked aside, straightened. “I left her, didn't I?” He gulped his whiskey. “I just figured... I don't see the point in hiding it anymore. Not from the few people I can consider close friends, at least.”

“Cormoran, what Charlotte's done... I can get you a restraining order, you know? Keep her away from...” started Ilsa, but Strike raised a hand and smiled.

“Ilsa, it's alright. I can deal with her. Besides, for all we know, she could be dying tomorrow. So, Robin, moving next week right? We could organise you a welcome party in the new flat!”

Robin looked surprised, for a moment taken aback, and then she curved her lips into a small smile.

“That's right!” Ilsa accepted the change of topic, knowing pushing wouldn't work. “Bet Louis' already thinking about it.”

“Thanks for the offer,” Robin accepted timidly. “But I don't quite feel ready for parties yet. It's all still too recent. Besides, just thinking that Matthew will get off so easily, and will continue fucking Sarah Shadlock just like that, be promoted, living in the city he always dreamed with, while I have all this struggle on my shoulders... it doesn't exactly put me in party mood.”

“If it serves of any consolation, he won't get off so easily,” Strike said. Robin looked at him, intrigued.

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” said Strike, pondering what to say and feeling a bit shy all of the sudden, “I think he's actually lost all the important things, and he's been left with a woman who's already been unfaithful to her fiancé for a long time, who, for what I've met her, is a pain in the arse,” Robin laughed lightly, and he smiled. “A boring job, dreams he cannot afford, a city in which he's nothing more than an ant more, and the knowledge that when he comes home, he will forever be the arsehole who cheated on the sweet Robin Ellacott. I can tell your family's quite loved up there, doubt people will like Matthew much now.”

“Yeah, bet he's feeling sorry,” Nick added with a nod. “We're dudes, we know most men are just insensitive arsehole boys... I mean, Oggy here isn't much of a better example, seeing how he treats his women,” Strike glared non-seriously and Nick side smiled. “But none of us is ever going to look with good eyes someone who's treated a woman like you like that wanker has. Everyone in the world could see he was already lucky to have you, and the one who losses the more is him.”

“Oh, come on,” Robin was blushing. “You two are exaggerating with the flattering. There's no need.” Strike and Nick exchanged confused looks and Strike leaned forward towards Robin.

“Has that tosser really lowered your self-esteem so much you don't see it?” Strike inquired, serious. Robin looked confused and half shrugged. “Robin, I've met Matthew, alright? And Vanessa, she could tell you the same, bet she has. Anyone could. Robin, wherever you go, people love you, even these people,” he gestured vaguely to their company, “adored you before even knowing you. Even a blind could see you're quite a big deal, whereas Matthew... he's boring to death, he's selfish, egocentric, manipulative, insecure, liar and has a constant need of being appreciated by women to feel valued. You're a psychologist, you've seen,” he teased like usual with her interrupted university studies. “Matthew's handsome half-athlete that I bet makes some girls crazy, but he's like the whore you fuck when you're desperate because of beauty but don't want anything else with. And you are more like the painting one might not appreciate so much at first, but that the more one looks at, the better it becomes and the more you want to keep looking at it.”

Strike was conscious he had said too much and now he was blushing. He saw first surprise, then happiness, cross Robin's face, and she smiled sweetly at him, her ears scarlet. Lucy hid a sneaky smile, looking away, Ilsa gave Strike an incredulous 'are you kidding me' expression, and Nick snorted a laugh.

“No need to be so obvious, mate...” he murmured. Robin found it strange, didn't understand, but she couldn't care less. Listening Strike talking such way about her had made her heart hammer like the rain against the windows.

The moment was broken when Strike's phone rang. Strike saw Anstis' name and didn't feel like attending the call, but once the moment was broken, it was ridiculous to try to bring it back. Hoping it was an important call, he accepted it and grumbled.

“What?” almost too roughly.

“Bob,” Anstis didn't seem to care. “Bob, I just heard. I thought... Helly said I ought to tell you, before the press harasses you.”

“Tell me what?”

“Charlotte,” said DI Richard Anstis. “She just died. Post-birth complications, the Ross will care for the twins.”

Strike felt coldness fill him, and a knot form in his stomach. He wasn't in good terms with Charlotte, and he never wanted to see her, but he had never wished her death and, admittedly, it was a terrible thing to happen, dying right after giving birth. A birth she hadn't wanted. Even if Charlotte had been a huge nightmare, she had still been the woman he had loved the most in his life. The only one. And now, he couldn't help to feel heartbroken. Before, when his friends had commented the possibility, it had seemed too distant and unrealistic for Strike to really take it seriously. A bad penny always turns up. The prospect of her actually dying just didn't seem real.

He realised DI Anstis had been calling him, trying to hear him again.

“Yes, Rick,” said Strike hoarsely. “I'm sorry, I'm with my family, bit distracted at the moment.” He was conscious there were four pairs of eyes fixed on him, and he couldn't move with Jack's body on top. “Thanks for letting me know, I appreciate it. Don't want the press up my door in the morning. Anyway, I have to go now, goodnight.”

“Right, goodnight Bob. I'm very sorry.”

“No need.” Strike hung up and the four pairs of eyes fixed expectantly on him. “What?”

“Was that Anstis?” Robin asked. “A new case?”

“Yes and no,” replied Strike. Then, supposing it was worthless to hide it, since it would be all over the TV and papers in the morning, he said. “Rick says Charlotte's dead.”

 


	3. The funeral

When Strike woke up in the morning, in his bed, after having denied offers to stay with his sister or his friends the night before, it felt like he hadn't slept at all. The rain was hammering against the windows again, but in a softer way, creating a dozing murmur that made him feel more sleepy. When he had arrived home, the reality of the circumstances had made him genuinely weep. He had cried like he hadn't cried in a long time, in a raw manner, with his whole body, in one of those cries where you're left without voice, your eyes swell, and your entire body feels shaky, cold and achy in the end, and then he had hardly slept, and his little sleep had been contaminated with the constant apparition of Charlotte creeping in to come back, say it was a joke, or perhaps just tease him saying 'oh, so you did care after all'. She would've been happy, Strike thought angrily, knowing her death had caused him such pain.

Unexpectedly, there was a knock on the door and it opened. Strike turned around, startled, and saw it was Robin, carrying two mugs of tea. Strike was confused as to what was she doing there on a Sunday, but also touched, and he flopped back in bed in relief, passing a hand through his face, knowing how he looked and that she'd know just by looking at him.

“Morning,” said Robin, putting the mugs of tea, exactly the dark, strong one Strike loved, on his bedside table, and carefully removing his clothes out of his armchair, putting them on top of his dresser, and moving the armchair so she could sit by his bedside. She looked expectantly at him, like a puppy assessing a situation. “I had nothing to do at Nick and Ilsa's today, so I came to the office, and when I saw it came ten and I wasn't hearing you upstairs... I decided to come take a peek.” Strike nodded.

“Thank you,” he took a long gulp of his tea and hummed as it immediately made him feel warmer, better, inside. “This is good. You didn't have to.” Robin nodded.

“I thought that... if Matthew died, despite everything... I'd be fucking heartbroken.” Strike snorted.

“Isn't it stupid though? It was sixteen years of lies. She never gave a shit.” Strike grumbled, sitting up in his bed, his head against the wall as he looked at the ceiling.

“Cormoran, you met her when you were just a boy. When your mum was alive. And Charlotte was there through literally all the worst moments of your life, for as long as she was,” said Robin softly. Her voice felt like a warm whisper over the thud of the rain. “She was a liar and manipulative, and that hurts. The fact that you'll never know how much you really meant to her hurts. What you really were. But in the meantime, you spent sixteen years being vulnerable to her, opening up to her... all in ways you've never done with anyone else. And you're not getting any apologises or truths. You have to move on, without having been given a proper closure. Truth is, you will never know for sure what you were for her... but you're painfully aware of what she was for you. And truth is, love or not, what you felt for her, was unlike anything you've ever felt before. Was something a dozen other women weren't even close to making you feel.”

Strike snorted a laugh.

“You're such a therapist...” he grumbled, joking. Robin smiled and climbed onto his bed. To his surprise, she settled sitting on the duvet next to him, and Strike was thankful to be wearing a t-shirt and boxers. She took her tea in one hand, supported her head on the wall like him, and took his hand with her free hand, giving a small squeeze.

“Opening up to someone is fucking difficult. Trusting someone with all the best of you is fucking difficult. Loving is fucking difficult,” the amount of raw cursing surprised Strike, who looked at Robin, but she was looking at his room. “We managed it once in our lives. We spend years with those people. And those people then went, stole the best, fucked us up, and then they're gonna go and die, so one can't even be mad.”

“Isn't life marvellous?” said Strike sarcastically. He felt Robin's head support on his shoulder and he looked down, feeling something flutter inside of him, before tentatively supporting his cheek on the top of her head. Robin gave his hand another soft squeeze and Strike closed his eyes. “I have to recognise, Robin, that even though so much shit happens every year... I'm glad I've got you. You get things. You don't think what we do is a waste of efforts and time. You're nice.” Robin smiled a little.

“I'm glad too. You're a grumpy old bastard,” Robin joked, amusing Strike. “But I wouldn't have had it any other way. And you're the only person in my life who doesn't act like they know better than me what's best for me.”

“What's best for you is that you do the fuck you want when the fuck you want, as long as it makes you happy,” Strike murmured, making her giggle.

“Come on,” Robin said suddenly, checking her watch and patting his thigh. “Let's go.”

“Where?” asked Strike, who was comfortable and almost felt like grumbling when Robin got up on her feet.

“Quick breakfast and then you have to get ready for Charlotte's funeral. It's in a couple hours.”

Only then did Strike notice that Robin's appearance was particularly neat and her clothes, particularly dark. She had her hair plaited back, a black skirt, black leotards, black short boots with just a bit of heel, and a dark blue blouse under the black jacket she had worn to job interviews in the past. Strike looked at her as if she had hit him with a brick.

“We're going to the funeral?” he accepted his leg, that Robin was handing him.

“Sure,” Robin nodded.

“Oh, no,” Strike shook his head. “Robin, I'm not welcomed there. Her family hates my guts, her friends... There has never been no one in the other one's life that approved us.”

“I thought about it and I've researched the cemetery, the grave will be near some bushes behind which we can hide. They're big, and there are many trees and all, and dressing dark, we'll blend in with the multitude. All the paparazzi are there, so they won't follow us.”

Strike found himself once again amazed by Robin's ability to go one step ahead of him or, in this case, twelve. She didn't have time for his grumbling and his 'buts' as she rummaged in his closet for a suit that was clean and dark, put it on his bed, and rushed to the kitchen to make some breakfast and give him intimacy for a quick shower and to get dressed. When he came back, twenty minutes later, he was fully dressed and shaved, and Robin had prepared some eggs and bacon, that she put on a plate in front of him.

“I've already eaten,” Robin explained seeing his confused expression.

Once Strike's stomach was full and he had brushed his teeth, he found himself telling Robin she did not have to come with him, that funerals weren't pretty and Robin could be better off doing anything else.

“You're not doing this alone,” said Robin unequivocally, showing the argument was dead.

As they left the building, Strike saw Robin was right; there was no press around the door. They walked to the second-hand BMW Strike owned now and Robin offered to drive. Strike, whose leg had struggled a great deal during their last case, agreed and slid into the back-seat, once again amazed by how good of a driver Robin was, despite the fact that she had never before driven his car. Robin drove swiftly through London, to the countryside outsides where the funeral was. Strike realised he had no idea where they were going, but Robin seemed absolutely sure. Finally, she parked by some thick trees in an area full of green.

“Brookwood,” Strike breathed out, looking through the window as he brought a hand to his seatbelt to remove it. Before he could do so, Robin reached a hand to his and Strike stopped, looking at her with a question in his eyes.

“Cormoran... when we go in there... you need to remember, Charlotte did a lot of awful, unforgivable things, but she wasn't the devil. She wasn't a murderer. And no one is a saint, we're all both good and bad, alright? Both,” said Robin looking serious. “Some people come from shitty places to become great people. Others are never able to, but that doesn't mean they like to be shitty. And Charlotte took care of you when you needed it the most. For whatever reason, it doesn't matter. She did.”

Strike clenched his teeth and rolled his eyes.

“Look, I'm here, aren't I? But one thing is coming and being a good person towards her for the sake of all good we once had, and another is pretending as if she didn't...”

“Aren't you manipulative? Don't you lie? Don't you treat some women awfully, Cormoran?” Robin pleaded urgently. Strike looked at her as if she had slapped him.

“What? Are you comparing...?” Robin rose her eyebrows, daring him.

“For as long as I've known you, you've slept with countless women as if they were objects because you needed to get off and they didn't mind. And the few girlfriends you've had, don't you think I haven't noticed they were far more attached to you and that you played them constantly? I heard you lie on the phone. I saw them come into the office looking for you, I saw them hoping you'd treat them like you cared, and I saw you pass royally most of the time.”

“Okay, so I'm an arsehole, but it's not the same, I don't go around manipulating and lying...”

“I know,” Robin stopped him with a gentle smile. “I know. All I'm trying to say is that.. _._ _He that is without sin among you, let him cast the first stone at her_.”

Strike snorted and rolled eyes.

“The bible? Seriously?” Robin smirked.

“Nobody's perfect,” they got off the car, and started walking side-by-side into the cemetery, strolling calmly, waiting for everyone funeral-related to be gone into the depths of the cemetery. “And, Cormoran,” Robin added then, as they walked next to some tall bushes under which some street cats were licking their paws. “I know at least you have done loads of great things for people.”

Strike looked at her and nodded satisfied, and then contemplated her for a moment. Robin had gotten thinner from stress lately, but she wasn't so pale anymore, nor had such deep bags under her eyes, and she walked with confidence, ring-free, with her hands inside her pockets, looking into the horizon.

“How're the CBT exercises going?” Strike asked as they walked down the path between graves.

“It's fine,” replied Robin. “Been doing some meditation with Ilsa and Louis at times. Apparently Ilsa's been doing it for ages, as to not carry stress and anxieties from trials into the household.”

Strike nodded. Soon, they could see the Rosses' burial chamber, and a lot of people in dark clothes. Robin and Strike hid between tall bushes and trees, contemplating the scene and hearing the low murmur of sobs and the priest's words. They saw Jago Ross, with a tear-stained face, his hands gripping a stroller where very likely, his new twins rested. They had to wait a long time, until the process of burying her was finished and everyone had left.

“I'll be right back,” Robin whispered all of the sudden, hurrying down the path towards the exist of the cemetery. Strike looked confused for a moment, but then looked back to the funeral taking place.

Strike had gone to a few funerals in his life. The first one had been his grandparents' funeral when he was little, then his mother, a funeral he remembered crystal clear. He could still hear his sister's crying, feel her shaking hand against his own, see their mum's coffin be lowered into the ground. After that, he had buried many army colleagues and friends, many of them involving carrying a coffin himself, wearing uniform, giving the flag to weeping wives or husbands and shaking hands with children forced to grow up too soon. Charlotte was not like any he had ever seen. He wondered if she would've liked it, if she would've been happy so many people came to see her, but to Strike, seeing so much multitude gave him a wave of sadness, because he knew many of them where just there because of matter related to social class and wish to appear in the photographs the paparazzi took, but that most didn't feel any sort of affection towards Charlotte. Mrs Campbell was between the multitude with her other daughter, and she didn't even have glassy eyes. Charlotte and her never got along.

“Here,” Robin had come back and was thrusting a big bouquet of flowers into Strike's hands. Strike looked confused.

“Robin, you didn't...”

“I know. It's the right thing,” Robin nodded for herself and looked back towards the funeral. “It's sad though. Most people don't look sad. One would've thought it's a very tragic thing, but not to most of these people.”

“I was just thinking that,” Strike grumbled. He rubbed his eyes angrily. “At least she's happy now. Her father, it was the only one in the family she got along with, they were like two peas in a pod... and when he died, she was devastated. He wasn't even that old. Now, one could think they might be together.” Robin looked at him and sighed deeply.

“I've only gone to one funeral in my life, aside from the mini funerals we did for the animals in my uncle's farm,” Robin confessed. “It was my grandma's, the only one I had left. She was so loved... and you could see, everyone was so affected by it, all kinds of people came, even those I didn't know, just to tell us how awesome she was to them. That's the way I'd like to go. With a bunch of people loving me, not this kind of... heartless formality. You can tell most of them won't miss Charlotte one bit.”

“Yeah...” Strike nodded. They were sitting on a bench behind the bushes, turned around with their arms on the back of the bench, watching the funeral through the bushes. Strike had supported his chin on crossed arms over the bench. “My mum's was very different as well. It was full of people who were truthfully broken. I remember Lucy stopped crying just as they lowered the coffin, I guess it became too real to even cry... and she simply looked at me and asked what was going to happen to us. She was nineteen.” Robin frowned.

“I know there's no right age to lose a mother but... woah, nineteen, that's tough. Explains a lot.”

Strike looked at her avid of curiosity.

“Does it?” he asked without understanding. He was glad it had stopped raining long ago for their bench to be dry, as the sun was strong now, because otherwise he knew his leg would already be tired from waiting so much.

“Of course. She's shaped her entire life, even starting university, by what happened to her mother. And she's damaged, you can see. Sometimes she's got the same something serious and deep in her eyes that you do... like the ghost of something who won't ever leave,” Robin shrugged. “Besides. She became a mother without having one herself. That's tough as hell.”

“So that one year of uni really did you well, didn't it?” Strike joked lightly, relaxing the knot in his stomach.

“Well,” Robin rolled eyes. “Just imagine. Having one child is hard. Having three is three times hard. And she had to go through all that emotional and physical turmoil without having a single woman by her side, aside from her mum in law, to emphasize with her, calm her down from experience, and teach her. She didn't have her mum to support her and tell her not to worry, because it's not so hard. She had you, and you were in the army, and the rest of the family in Cornwall. She's a tough woman, you can tell.”

Strike nodded. They fell back into a comfortable silence for five, ten minutes, as Charlotte was buried and some guests left, but most were still there, standing around the grave, arms around each other.

“I thought of my funeral,” said Robin suddenly, cutting the silence and surprising Strike, who looked astonished as her. She was looking at the funeral. “When Raphael was pointing at me with the gun. I imagined my family broken, and you standing there angry and blaming yourself. And you know what I realized?”

“What?” said Strike, and his voice sounded low and hoarse, hard to listen, so he cleared his throat. Robin looked at him, and her eyes were slightly glassy.

“That no matter what we do, whenever is time to say goodbye to one another, the one who's left, and seeing how well you care for yourself it'll probably be me, will be fucking heartbroken, and angry... and if it happened on duty, whoever's left will feel responsible. It's unavoidable. Because that's what happens when you care so much about someone.” Strike nodded, gulping a new knot in his throat, and looked back at the funeral.

“If I die on duty,” Strike murmured. “I hope you know you're the one I want in charge of the agency. If it happened, I'd want you to keep the agency afloat for me, to make yourself the boss everyone has to respect and listen to the way they do to me, Barclay and Denise and everyone else.”

Robin smiled sadly.

“So you'd want me to focus on that after losing my best friend? What about grieving time?”

“There isn't much time to grieve when someone's life is at stake, and I wouldn't want anyone to die as a consequence of my own death,” Strike replied. “It's what we were taught in the army. If a mate falls, you go on, because what we do is bigger than us. There's people counting on us. Besides,” he added, daring to look at Robin, who had a silent tear on her cheek and her eyes fixed on the funeral, “I wouldn't ask so much of you if I didn't know you can do it. You're a way stronger, more capable person, that you've realised yet, and if one day I'm not around, for whatever reason, hell, I could just fall sick with a stomach bug one week, you have to become my size. You have to, because you can, I'm not even saying be like I've been, but be better, because you are better. No one else has what it takes.”

Robin felt a mixture of sadness with the conversation and also her heart swelled seeing the way Strike thought of her. How tough, how skilled, he thought her to be. 'No one else has what it takes'. Before she had to react, Strike elbowed her, signalling it was time to move. Everyone had left and they took deep breaths, brushed their faces with their hands pretending not to see the other do it as well, Strike grabbed the flowers, and they walked onto the fresh grave. Strike put the flowers between the others and then with a solemn tone, he simply said:

“Rest in peace, Charlotte Campbell. Make sure to drive everyone in hell crazy and let them know who's the boss.”

 


	4. Honest

After the funeral, Strike and Robin headed off to The Tottenham pub and Strike fetched a Doom Bar and a glass of white wine, chips, and they sat next to each other, choosing food for lunch and then eating it. For a while, they didn't talk much, only discussing trivial things like the weather, football, the divorce, work. They had gotten a few new cases and Barclay and others they hired every now and then were covering most of the investigations, then coming to them with the information they got, and Strike and Robin did most of the hard thinking. The pub was warm and cosy, the rain had returned to the Londoner streets, and they were happy just being in each other's company. Strike had made a point on leaving Robin a seat on the bench by the wall, so no one would pass behind her and startle her, and from where she could see everything. He was determined to avoid triggers.

“Almost forgot,” Robin remembered all of the sudden, licking the chips' salt off her fingers. Strike, who had been observing the gesture trying not to be very obvious, and feeling he couldn't take his eyes off her lips sucking on her fingers, the tip of her tongue coming to lick the skin a little, was almost startled when she spoke, and his eyes moved quickly to her eyes. “My parents are coming next weekend to visit. Mum wanted you to come have dinner with us on Saturday. I promised to ask you.”

Strike looked surprised. As Robin and him had drifted apart during most of the year following her marriage, the last time he had spoken to Linda Ellacott had been at Robin's wedding, during the reception, and she had been very angry and cold with him. Strike wondered if now she wanted to finish him off for letting her daughter be held at gunpoint, but he imagined if that was the case, he should confront his destiny instead of trying to run away. If Linda was half as determined as her daughter, and Strike imagined she was, there would be nowhere to run to. She'd eventually find him.

“Alright,” Strike decided. “Actually, why don't you let me invite you three? It'd be convenient to improve the way your family sees me.” He commented lightly with half a smile. Robin looked at him and snorted a laugh.

“Stephen told me mum was about to knife you at the wedding,” Robin remembered, not feeling sorry at all, and with a smugly tone, smiling a little as she opened her mouth to let a chip inside.

“She's just protective of you, obviously, you're her only daughter. And she had all the reason to be angry at me. You two are so alike she wasn't going to be intimidated by my size, my record, or anything really, she knows who the bad guy is and goes straight to his neck. I don't know why I was even slightly surprised, when you came out of her.”

“Ew,” Robin was, however, amused. “Well, you're a big boy, I'm sure you can handle her, with that dirty mouth of yours,” Strike laughed and she smiled kindly. “I think she's in good terms now, though. And she'll be cheerful, knowing she won't have a grandchild from a wanker, got my period a few days ago.”

Strike laughed again and Robin giggled. They had gotten the rest of the food they had ordered, and for a moment they just focused on eating big amounts. It was nice to be out, just the two of them having fun, without caring about a job. Strike was partially cheerful from the announcement of the reassurance that Robin wasn't pregnant of Matthew.

“Fine, I've made a decision,” said Strike all of the sudden, as if he had just been struck by an outstanding idea. Robin looked at him both amused and surprised, raising her eyebrows expectantly as she took a large gulp of her wine. “I'm done with night-stands and with dating women I don't really see a future with. Next official girlfriend I have, will be with the full intention of, if all goes well, marrying her one day, and the minute I don't see the possibility of that happening because we just don't belong, I'll break-up.”

Robin, surprised by the sudden, unrelated to conversation, confession, looked at the pint he was drinking with gusto. It was the fifth one, and she wondered if that had something to do, but at the same time, he still looked and sounded sober, and the declaration had made something rise in her stomach, like a dragon waking up from slumber and sniffing the surroundings with purpose.

“bugger, I'll have to send my condolences to all those hopeful women,” Robin said sarcastically, making him snigger and drink more. “What's happened, did Lucy finally get to you?”

“No,” Strike shrugged. “I've decided I'd like to have a wife to miss me at my funeral. I want to mean a lot to someone, and not just be a dick to a bunch of women. Quality over quantity. Besides,” Strike added, and Robin's jaw was already almost dropping, “I'll be thirty-eight in just over a month and I still have hair on my head, so I need to take advantage, or I'll be seventy, alone, and with no sex life.” He added with a light tone, and Robin sniggered.

“Don't worry Cormoran, if anything, there's still a vacant to be a grumpy old bastard, 70-year-old version.” Robin teased, and as he elbowed her playfully, they both laughed. “Wanna know something fun?”

“What?”

“During my wedding reception, I asked a waiter, on Matthew's face, if by any chance they didn't have a charged gun. Right after having fought hard upstairs with my husband, threatening with abandoning him right then. Matthew flipped, thought I was going to shoot him.” Strike looked surprised and amazed.

“The important question here is, would you have shot him?” Robin took far too long to answer in denial, and Strike roared in laughter. “But Robin! Why did you even stay with him?” He asked, keeping the conversation in a light tone.

“Told you he got sick during the honeymoon, and my parents had spent so much money, and I just... I'm far too kind, Cormoran. Far too kind.” She drank, feeling already a little tipsy. Strike was giving her a sweet look that was making her cheeks warm.

“Don't say it as if it was a flaw,” criticised Strike. “And you know what? You're only twenty-seven. There's still time. Now you have more experience than most women tend to have, and next time you meet someone, it'll be easier to know if they're trustworthy or not. I'm sure one day, you'll marry someone who truly brings light into your world.” Robin frowned lightly.

“What if I don't want to marry? What if I just want to be a badass detective?”

“You're badass enough to be both, Robin, why choose?” replied Strike. “But, if you didn't want to marry...” Strike put a hand on her shoulder, and they looked at each other so intently they both felt their faces too warm. “You will be just fine. The Robin Ellacott I know doesn't need anyone else, and even less, a man.”

Robin grinned and before Strike could grasp what was happening, threw herself into his arms, hugging him tightly. Strike smiled against her hair, feeling his nostrils fill with her flowered perfume. He had missed these hugs, and he loved that for once, he was free to hug her as tightly as he wanted, without wondering about what would any stupid husband think.

“Can I ask you a favour?” said Robin against his ear, and he felt chills around where her breath had tickled his skin.

“Anything at all.”

“Next time you see I'm about to make an enormous mistake, and even more if that mistake is about to tie me to an awful person, you tell me. You have all my blessing to speak up when they ask if anyone knows of a reason why two people should not be married. I might kill you first, but I'll end up being grateful. Be a friend and don't shut up to be polite, throw all the damn flowers down.”

Strike laughed and felt her smile against his shoulder, squeezing him tighter.

“As if me doing that would've made any difference with Matthew.”

Robin pulled apart and looked at him with a lot of intensity.

“It would've,” she said, full of resolve. “I would've gone back to London with you.”

Strike's eyebrows shot up and he looked at her incredulous, astonished, and chastising himself for not having bloody listened to Shanker and stopped that wedding. Shit, and she hadn't mentioned Shanker. She had clearly said 'with you'.

“You're telling me,” Strike murmured, conscious that their arms were still around each other, and their faces mere inches apart. “That if I had said don't marry that arsehole, you would've forgotten about your family, the wedding, and everything else, and you would've just let Shanker drive us back to London in a stolen car?”

“To the one place where I've been truly fulfilled and happy since I was a kid?” Robin grinned. “Of course.” Strike took ad deep breath and then nodded.

“Then I promise next time you're about to make a huge mistake, I'll tell you not to be stupid and to come with me. Because I've bloody missed you.”

“But I was only gone two weeks,” said Robin confused, seeing the emotion in his eyes and feeling a bit awkward.

“I mean... things got so cold, for the whole year and I...” Strike cleared his throat and shrugged, looking down. “I missed you.” Robin smiled, feeling warm inside, and hugged him once again. This time none made an effort to squeeze the other, it was just the kind of hug where you let yourself fall against the other and be held and comforted, enjoying the feeling.

“I missed you too. God, we've been bloody stupid.” Strike nodded against her shoulder, and closed his eyes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I haven't updated in a while any of my stories, but truth is the lack of reviews makes me think no one cares if I update this or not so I figure why lose my time grabbing the laptop and updating when I could be doing other stuff? I truly do enjoy writing and for me, I get the same joy even if I don't publish. The entire fic is written, I already had joy with it, publishing is only to share it if people like it.
> 
> Finally I've decided to put up this chapter, but I've decided I won't publish any other of this story unless I get 5 reviews, and that way I can filter and don't lose time updating stories that don't interest much in favour of updating more often those that do get petitions for more chapters. After all, a writer doesn't publish another book of a saga if the one before is not bought. This will go on until this story ends, if you get to see the end. This is not out of anger or anything, not really, but I think us fanfic writers need to have some pride, you know? I think we work very hard to create aditional content, and if no one cares we're equally happy writing it for ourselves and don't losing time putting it up online only so someone can steal the work (which happens very often) but we get 0 credit.


	5. The deal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPECIAL THANK YOU AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS TO: FilisGirl, Nessa_Val, quilldrop, Kat, April, GinnyW1981, MarshmallowYatt, Barb+Nikola. Reading your comments has brought me the greatest joy. Love you.
> 
> The current priorities for updating are:  
> \- The cormorant and the robin – 8 comments in last chapter.  
> \- The daughter – 5 comments in last chapter.  
> \- Where we stand together – 4 comments in last chapter. Gets about 5,45 comments by chapter.  
> \- To be continued – 4 comments in last chapter. Gets about 2,04 comments by chapter.  
> \- I will light a fire – 4 comments in last chapter. Gets about 1,85 comments by chapter.
> 
> THESE STORIES WILL CONTINUE BEING UPDATED for now. At any point, one of them may move to the black list. All I demand for me to publish another chapter of a story is to get at least 6 comments after a new chapter. If this happens, a new episode will come. With this new order, I expect all these five stories will be fully published before the year ends. Therefore there'll be approximately two stories being updated daily until the year ends, or every couple days.
> 
> When will new stories be updated? I've got right now four stories waiting to come to AO. Where we stand together part 2 and I will light a fire part 2 are two of them, the other two are completely new and unrelated. If all goes well, they will arrive in January.
> 
> THANK YOU

The week passed in a blur and soon it was Friday again. Strike got up early, showered, got into his comfiest shoes, and walked down to the office. Denise was gone, as she was just a temp and now they had another one, Caroline, busy on the phone, who smiled sweetly and waved at him while dealing with a client. Robin was in the inner office, in her own desk, sorting paperwork out and investigating, making notes. She looked up at him.

“Morning, what're you doing here? You should be picking-up Jack?”

“On my way,” replied Strike. “Just wanted to make sure everything is in order.”

“Cormoran, today is your free day, I will hold the agency up in your absence and be better than you,” Robin smiled, referencing to their conversation at the cemetery. Strike had been in a delicate mood all week, rather grumpy, as he still dealt with such death, but he was better now. “Go and have fun with your nephew.”

“Call me if anything happens?”

“Absolutely not,” Robin refused. “If anything happens, I will handle it, you have nothing to worry about. I'll let you call me tonight if you want, only to tell you the day was great and you still have a job.”

“Right,” Strike couldn't help feeling amused, diverted. “This is for you.” He pulled a scribbled paper out of his pocket and gave it to Robin.

“Be ready at your flat at 7PM. Green dress.” Robin read. She smiled, and was grateful she had gotten her dress fixed thanks to someone Lucy recommended her who did amazing jobs fixing delicate dresses.

“With your parents,” added Strike. “Make sure your dad packs a suit. We're going somewhere nice.”

“Cormoran, you don't have to...”

“I want to,” said Strike. “You're this agency's northern star, and your parents are the star's parents. I'm not taking you anywhere mundane.” He said, indignant. Robin grinned and nodded.

“Thank you. We'll be ready. Tomorrow, right?”

“Tomorrow. Bye,” said Strike with a wave.

“See you, give Jack a hug from me!”

Jack was bloody excited when Strike picked him up, and it amused Strike, making him chuckle at times. First, they went for breakfast to a place Strike had known from his mum, where they made the best English breakfast. Then, with full bellies, Strike took Jack to the National Army Museum and to Churchill's War Rooms, they had lunch at a McDonalds, and during said lunch, when they weren't talking passionately about army things, Strike learned about Jack's favourite people, his friends and best teachers, the classes he liked the most. He was somewhat surprised to hear about his love and skills for music class, evidently taken after his grandmother, and also science. Strike then took the boy to see a Marvel movie he had been wanting to see and had missed when he was sick, because his brothers had seen it without him, and by the time the movie ended it was already close to five.

“Alright mate,” said Strike, as they exited the cinema, both with full stomachs from popcorn and coke. “I've got tickets for the Royal Observatory's Evening with the Stars, if you fancy?” Jack's eyes widened.

“We can see the nebulas, and the galaxy?!”

“Indeed,” Strike smiled at his enthusiasm. Lucy had been such an enthusiastic 9-year-old as well.

“Yes!”

“Okay, we have to get back in the car and go all the way to Greenwich, it's a bit far, but worth it. What do you think if we invite my friend Robin to join us? Only if you want.”

“The pretty redhead?” Jack asked. “With the sky eyes and nice laugh?” Strike looked surprised.

“See someone's got a crush?” Jack chuckled.

“One of us certainly does,” Jack said. “But it's not me.” Strike blushed and wondered when he had become so observant. Wait, did he have a crush? On Robin? “Call her, Uncle Corm, she's fun!”

They agreed to pick Robin up at the office in Denmark Street, where she was still working. Robin joined them with a grin and happily slid in the back-seat, Jack sitting next to Strike. She listened amused as Jack talked and talked about army things, and in the meantime Strike drove to Greenwich. His leg was starting to bother him and he was starting to feel exhausted, but he had to admit Jack was quite a nice company, and for the first time, he had spent a day spending money without worrying, just having fun and forgetting about crimes and bullshit. Robin persuaded Jack to tell her until the last drop of information, and they finally made it to Greenwich. There was a long hill to the observatory, and Strike was panting in the end, his leg throbbing, but he forgot when he saw Robin excitedly show Jack the meridian of Greenwich's line on the floor, and he started jumping from one side to another of the line shouting 'plus one hour, minus one', grinning, while Robin laughed and Strike realised he was in a big problem.

His problem only worsened as they sat looking up at a sky full of stars in the observatory room, seeing Jack and Robin's awe. She had an arm around his nephew, and he was leaning onto her, his jaw dropped as he looked up, and she had a soft smile towards him. Strike contemplated them as if they were more important than the bloody galaxy and the absurd amount of money he had spent on their tickets and for one moment, remembering the nurse confusing Robin for Jack's mother, which he had heard, and seeing how much Jack resembled Leda, having Strike's same dark curls, Strike felt his heart skip a beat as realisation came upon him; He wouldn't be too unhappy to have a child like Jack, with Robin, and having moments like these, just the three of them, for the rest of their lives. Perhaps Strike had never felt father material, but he hadn't felt like an uncle much either and now he was nailing it, who said he couldn't nail paternity as well? And besides... Robin would be a tremendous mother.

Jack fell asleep in the car after they had dinner outside, in a family-friendly place, and Strike insisted he was fine carrying him on his arms to his attic, even if his leg screamed for mercy. Robin felt a new warmth inside seeing Strike stripping Jack off shoes, jacket and jeans and tucking him in his bed, and then moved to let Strike remove his prosthesis in peace while she sat on a stool in his small kitchen, drinking tea.

“You're a wonderful uncle,” said Robin in a low voice as Strike crutched out of his room, flopping on a stool next to him.

“I'm bloody exhausted,” Strike confessed. “But that was fun, wasn't it?” Robin smiled.

“I had the best time. I had never been in Greenwich before, and Jack's a wonderful boy.”

“He is.”

“Reminds me of you a bit.”

“He's happier than I was at his age,” Strike pointed out. They accompanied each other in silence for a moment, before Strike spoke again. “How's your new flat?”

“Great, and Louis' a sweetie.”

“Good,” Strike nodded. “I'm sorry I can't walk you home. I'm knackered.”

“Don't worry, my Land Rover is right downstairs.”

“I'll walk you to it at least.”

“But you just took off your leg.”

“Oh, no dramas. It comes on and off, you see?” Strike joked playfully, making her snigger. “You good to drive?”

“Perfectly fine.”

Strike put his leg back on, scribbled a quick note for Jack to know, if he woke up, that Strike would be right back and to stay in the attic, and walked with Robin back into the fresh night. Once they stood by the Land Rover, they looked at each other expectantly.

“So, uh,” Strike looked from the car to Robin. “I had fun.”

“Me too,” Robin nodded. “Should we hug?”

“Now that I've gotten used to that, we simply ought to. That's the deal.” Robin side smiled and hugged him, and he wrapped his arms around her with comfortable familiarity and kissed the top of her head. He thought he felt her judder. “Goodnight Robin. Text me when you're safe home.”

“Sure,” Robin pulled apart. “Goodnight, you two.”

As Strike stood on the street, waving goodbye at the car that abandoned Denmark Street, he thought this was all getting stupid.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPECIAL THANK YOU AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS TO: Roza_VA_Belikov, Nessa_Val, Zolena and GinnyW1981. Your comments lift me up and keep bringing chapters in. I can't express my gratitude! Love you.
> 
> The current priorities for updating are:  
> \- The cormorant and the robin – 8 comments in last chapter.  
> \- The daughter – 5 comments in last chapter.  
> \- Where we stand together – 4 comments in last chapter. Gets about 5,45 comments by chapter.  
> \- To be continued – 4 comments in last chapter. Gets about 2,04 comments by chapter.  
> \- I will light a fire – 4 comments in last chapter. Gets about 1,85 comments by chapter.
> 
> THESE STORIES WILL CONTINUE BEING UPDATED for now. At any point, one of them may move to the black list. All I demand for me to publish another chapter of a story is to get at least 6 comments after a new chapter. If this happens, a new episode will come. With this new order, I expect all these five stories will be fully published before the year ends. Therefore there'll be approximately two stories being updated daily until the year ends, or every couple days.
> 
> When will new stories be updated? I've got right now four stories waiting to come to AO. Where we stand together part 2 and I will light a fire part 2 are two of them, the other two are completely new and unrelated. If all goes well, they will arrive in January.
> 
> THANK YOU


	6. Exceptional

Strike woke up in his camp bed early in the morning, checked Jack was still asleep, and showered, taking generous care of his leg and doing everything the physiotherapist said he ought to do. He wanted to be at his best for the dinner that night with Robin's family, a dinner that, for some reason, felt like it was important, since Strike had that feeling that nothing would be the same after that night. Jack finally woke up to the smell of breakfast, and Strike made sure he ate enough and without eating so much he felt shitty afterwards, and then both got ready and Strike drove Jack home. Lucy was thrilled when she saw Jack's cheerfulness and he started rambling about how much fun she'd had, and hugged Strike multiple times, thanking him over and over. Strike said he'd be happy to repeat soon, and he meant it.

Back home, Strike spent most of the day working hard, and when Robin texted him saying Stephen and wife Jenny had come by surprise too and whether it was still okay for dinner, Strike merely changed the reservation and texted affirmative. Their latest client had paid very well, and Strike wasn't anxious about it. Robin had also mentioned she had finally just signed her divorce, and Strike had replied to that more excitedly than he maybe should have.

Strike's second-hand BMW had the option to transform park of the trunk into an extra seat, so Strike spent a few minutes securing it, then went back to change into his suit, shower, get handsome, before going back to the car and driving to Robin and Louis' flat. Strike parked by the door and straightened his suit before pressing a finger against the intercom button.

“Yes?” Robin answered.

“It's Cormoran, I'll wait here.”

“Alright, be right there!”

Surely barely two minutes later Robin led the way outside, in her outstanding green dress that made Strike's breath catch, wearing high-heeled heels with platforms, the kind Matthew didn't like her to wear, and followed by her parents, both looking happy and nice, and Stephen and Jenny, who looked pretty pregnant. A round of greetings followed and Strike was pleased to see everyone, even Linda, seemed happy to see him. Strike murmured a compliment to Robin as he held the car door open for her, making her blush, and remembered to congratulate Jenny and Stephen; this seemed rather weird, being like, 'congrats, you're about to have a melon split your vagina open'.

Stephen took the foldable seat in the back, Jenny sat with Mr and Mrs Ellacott, and Robin went to be the copilot. On the way to the mysterious restaurant, they kept small chat about politics, work, houses and other formalities, and once Strike had parked in the restaurant's parking lot, they got out of the car and Strike retrieved a small, cloth bag, from the trunk. The group walked together to the restaurant.

“Cormoran Strike,” Strike said to the person who was in charge of seating everyone. “I booked a table for six.”

“Cameron...” the guy murmured checking the list.

“Cormoran,” Strike hissed. “Detective Cormoran Strike. You really need to read a newspaper every now and then.” He murmured, and Robin stifled a laugh against her hand.

“Right...” the guy nodded slowly. “Sure, this way.”

They were led to a round table on a corner by some large windows with great views of the Thames, and Strike blushed as he offered Robin a seat. She looked at him surprised, but sat down.

“This is so nice,” Jenny commented looking around and cupping her belly. “You didn't have to bother so much, Cormoran.”

“It's no bother,” replied Strike politely. “You invited me to an expensive reception I didn't even bother to RSVP for, come on. Talking about big events, this is your happy divorce present.” Said Strike, giving Robin the small bag he had carried. Robin smiled and opened it, pulling out a book.

“A Basic Guide to Criminals,” she read, amused. The book was thick and looked old.

“My Uncle gave it to me ages ago when I joined the SIB, and I've found it very useful,” Strike explained. “It tells you how to deal with hostage situations, tricks to interrogate criminals, how to unload a gun with pictures, how to convince a criminal you're on their side... all sorts of things. It's a great tool. More than half of it I hope you never have to need to know it, but I still find it interesting, just for curiosity.”

“Oh, Cormoran...!” Robin grinned, passing pages just to take a look and seeing there were plenty of photographs. “Thank you! This is great!”

“You're welcome,” Strike looked satisfied. “I'll tell you what Uncle Ted told me; if you can't swear you'll never be in tricky situations, then you better be prepared'.”

“Does it say how to steal a car?” Michael asked, looking over Robin's shoulder.

“I don't think it... oh, it does!” Robin exclaimed, astonished. Stephen sniggered, putting an arm around his wife, and Linda shook her head with a chuckle. “Wait, when have you stolen a car?” she asked Strike.

“I haven't done the entire book,” replied Strike, examining the menu. “But I did have to steal a car in Iraq, running from some criminals... oh, they serve Doom Bar here!” he quickly forgot about the army and focused on the menu and Robin shook her head, amused, and shoved her new book into her purse.

“Cormoran,” Linda started halfway through dinner. “I owe you an apologize. I was rude with you at the we...”

“Please, don't,” Strike stopped her lifting a hand. “Linda, if I had a daughter, and someone half as jerk as I've been treated my daughter the way I treated Robin, that someone would've gained a trip to the operating room faster than a lightning. You have nothing to apologize for.” Michael chuckled, Linda looked endeared, and Robin rolled eyes with a small smile she dissimulated by eating. “Although I hope you don't mind if I dare tell you something about Robin.”

“Oh, please, anything,” Linda encouraged. Seeing Strike dropping his cutlery to focus on Linda, Robin looked up with curiosity.

“Just for future references,” said Strike, looking at both Michael and Linda. “I understand your concerns about Robin, I'm not a father, but I get it. I practically fathered my sister, and even I am overprotective with Robin to the same degree as to my sister. Of course I'd hunt down and hurt anyone who hurt them. But I think it's time you and I accept, once and for all, that we have zero business trying to stop Robin.”

“Woah,” Robin muttered. Strike continued like nothing, feeling brave.

“Robin is almost twenty-eight and she's no longer your baby. She's her own woman and she must do whatever makes her happy, even if it's bloody dangerous, because otherwise she'll never be fully happy and satisfied with her life. There's people, like my sister, who are the happiest with a calm, anodyne life and three children, and people like Robin and I, who need to give our brains the hard work or resolving things, who thrive from curiosity, and who seek more adventure and action, and Robin's ready to take full responsibility for the risks of her job. She knows them, and I'm sure she'll risk her neck a hundred times more, as much as we dislike it, but trying to keep her safe home, away from all danger... that's not going to help her, not when very often danger finds you home, unprepared. Best we can do, I think, it's just give her tools and make sure she's ready to fight for her life if she has to, and I really think that she's proven enough she's made tough. She can deal with whatever comes, but she needs you to support her, not to act as if you know better, not to try in vain to keep her safe, not to make her feel she cannot do this. I think... I think is as when she learned to ride a horse. If she had had to sit and listen to you saying 'no, it's too dangerous' and refuse to let her near horses, she'd be useless with them and likely afraid of them, but you didn't, you simply made sure that, if she was going to be so bloody insistent about horses, she'd be prepared to ride them like a pro, so she did. This is the same. We get into scary situations, and if everyone starts panicking and telling us we're going to get killed... it doesn't help at all. Robin already had Matthew for that. I think it's way more helpful to just say 'hey, you've dealt with worse and survived, you'll get through this as well'. And I say it in front of you, Robin, if you'll excuse me,” added Strike, turning to look at Robin, whose jaw had dropped, had glassy eyes and was blushing hard. Strike could feel his bravery come to an end and hurried up, “because you ought to know if you were some useless pretty face in heels who screams because there's a bee in the near fifty yards, I would not, for one second, dare to hire you. You're where you are because you deserve it, because you earned it through hard work, and because I see in you potential to be no less than any fellow SIB I've ever had. You're certainly brighter than most of them, and if you don't believe it, look at Anstis, who's been unable to reach your ankles from the start. If you want to pursue dangerous things, fine, I will no longer waste my energy attempting to hold you back, but you read that damn book, and you hit the gym, and you be prepared to show those bastards who Robin Ellacott is next time anyone dares to point a gun at you.”

Their positions made hugging hard, so Robin contented with throwing her arms around his neck and supporting her face against his shoulder.

“Cormoran!” Robin cried. “You really mean that?” she asked, pulling away and rubbing her eyes.

“Jesus, Robin, of course! Hell, had you been in the SIB with me, I could've still had two legs. You've become in two years what most of my old mates could aspire to perhaps become in ten, and without even having been properly educated and mentally prepared for these things.”

“He's fully right, honey,” Michael admitted. “We know we've been too... protective.” Robin looked even more astonished at them. “It wasn't okay. You used to be so fearless in the past and ever since... well... I guess we became so overprotective you weren't even encouraged to get back into adventure ever again. But you should. Like Cormoran's remarked, you're good at this.”

“Exceptionally good,” Linda added, proudly.

“Truth be told,” Stephen commented. “If the boys and I had known what you'd end up doing, we wouldn't have dared to mess with you so much.” Robin grinned.

“Thanks, guys. It means the world.”

“Now,” Jenny smiled. “Time not to let another stupid man make you small.”

Dinner was very enjoyable. Robin's family was a lot like Robin herself, funny, warm and kind, and Jenny was full of interesting facts about all sorts of things, so there was always a good vibe and a good amount of conversation topics. Hours later they finally made it out of the restaurant, and Strike drove them back home, having drank only one beer. When farewell time came, Strike was happy to receive another hug from Robin, and when Strike arrived to his flat, he was still smiling to himself thinking of the feeling of Robin's hug and her laughter during dinner.

 


	7. We belong

A few weeks later, Strike, Vanessa and the rest of the gang planned a surprise birthday party for Robin, which, to fool a detective, required an immense amount of logistics. Robin's siblings, her friends from Masham, Louis, Vanessa, Ilsa, Nick and Lucy would ensure the event hall they had rented between all of them would be ready and decorated on Saturday the 6th, as Robin's birthday fell on a Tuesday and it wasn't a good day to celebrate. Strike and Barclay would make sure Robin was busy and unsuspecting all Saturday, as they had created an investigative case that would take Robin all day to resolve.

It all started on Saturday morning, when Robin was putting a case together in the office, sitting in the outside desk. They didn't attend anyone on Saturdays, just focused on their current cases. Strike approached Robin slowly and dropped an envelope on her desk. Robin frowned, looked up at him, and raised eyebrows questioningly.

“I've prepared an investigative exercise for you,” said Strike innocently. “It'll be fun! I figured, you've been working so hard but since you still want to keep getting better... I've called it the 'Get to know your city' gymkhana. You love gymkhanas.” Robin looked surprised, but Strike seemed so proud of himself, she decided to go on and opened the envelope. It contained a single paper with a sentence Robin read out loud.

“My name is Nelson, and if you know my battles, you'll know where to find me,” Robin read. She looked at Strike, somewhat amused. “Don't you think I should stay and work instead of going out on gymkhanas?”

“I think this is an important test to your skills,” Strike shrugged. “So what are you waiting for? Find Nelson.”

Robin smiled and looked back at the paper.

“Well if he battled, he was a soldier,” said Robin. “Or perhaps is... and to be in London, he should be some important Brit... Of one of our most important battles...” Robin looked thoughtful to the paper, as she mentally went over famous battles of England and all the monuments she knew in London. Suddenly it came to her mind. “Wait... isn't the column in Trafalgar Square put there after a Nelson? Because of the Battle of Trafalgar, right?” Strike smiled.

“Find there your next clue.” He said enigmatically. Robin chuckled and got up, picking her purse and her car keys.

Robin drove to Trafalgar Square intrigued, having to park a bit far from it due to traffic, and full of curiosity, she rushed to Nelson's Column. She stood by it between loads of tourists and looked around.

“Now what?” Robin asked herself wondering if she had forgotten some clue. She walked around the column, looking for another envelope.

“Robin!” Barclay appeared all of the sudden. Robin looked surprised.

“Hi, are you with Cormoran in this weird...?”

“Yes,” Barclay handed her another envelope. “Well done.” Robin rolled eyes, but the corner of her lips twitched into a smile as she grabbed the new envelope and opened it.

“Some may think I'm a cat, others may think I resemble a tiny bear, I'm cute as I'm fierce, I dive gracefully but also I run, I'm a mammal like you and even though you can find me grabbing stones, I might've grabbed your next clue.” Robin read. Her eyes widened. “What?” Barclay smiled.

“What might be?”

“Mammal! Could be a thousand things! But swims and runs? And what's it saying about stones?” Barclay raised his eyebrows.

“Right! Maybe they've got a super power...”

Robin pursed her lips, thoughtful.

“Mammals that swim... could be a dog, but they don't grab stones...” Robin sat thoughtful on the steps of the statue. “It's not a cat nor a bear either, because it only looks like them... and it has to be a good diver... dolphins and whales, but they don't run...” she murmured to herself, thinking out loud. “I resemble a tiny... oh, so it's something tiny. What's tiny, dives, runs, and may look like a kitten or a bear?” she pursed her lips. “Otters? They're mammals, right? And they're tiny, they dive, they run, looks like a cat or a bear, they're cute but I saw a video in which they eat like monsters, so also fierce. Otters!” Barclay smiled and handed her a small paper. It was a ticket for London Wetland Centre.

“Off you go then!” said Barclay excitedly. Robin grinned, getting into the game, and grabbed the ticket, running to her car as she researched in her phone for London Wetland Centre's address.

The drive took longer than necessary because she got lost a couple times, but she eventually made it there. With her ticket, she entered and asking around went to the otter area, where there was a stream, vegetation, and plenty of otters. She stood there unsure and suddenly one of the workers, a young woman, approached her.

“Excuse me, are you Detective Robin?” she asked.

“Robin Ellacott, yes,” Robin replied nervously.

“Yes,” the woman smiled. “Well come along, you'll need to get changed.”

Astonished, Robin was made to change into a special jumpsuit and go help feed the otters. Robin grinned playing with the otters and enjoying their company and, once they were all fed and she was back in her clothes, she was given another envelope. She read this one in the silence of her car. It said: 'Become your namesake in a Kingdom up the Thames. Have some lunch and if you nail it thrice, you'll get the next clue'”

“Kingdom up the Thames,” Robin snorted a laugh, leaning back in her seat. This time she had no one to confirm or deny her suspicions, she'd have to guess. “Well namesakes are either Robin from Batman or Robin Hood...” Robin remembered how Strike had almost mentioned her name would be easy to remember due to Batman when they had met, so it could be a reference to that. But the Kingdom suggested Robin Hood more. Robin opened her phone and googled 'Robin Hood, London'. She was led to a road called Robin Hood Way, in Kingston-upon-Thames. “A Kingdom up the Thames...” Robin chuckled. “Gotcha.”

Robin ignited the vehicle and led the old Land Rover all the way to Kingston-upon-Thames and then to the road. She was confused, not knowing what she was looking for or at which point of Robin Hood Way she should park, as it was a very long way by the A3. She was starting to get desperate when she saw, over a large fence, the statue of a horse wearing a green cloak and a tiny green hat, and she laughed, parking as close as she could. It was an equestrian centre.

She knocked on the wooden fence door and the force of his soft knocking pushed the door open.

“Hello?” she called inside. A brunette, beautiful woman appeared.

“Hello, you must be Robin,” she smiled at Robin, offering a hand to shake. “I'm Tracey, an old friend of Cormoran's. My sister is the owner of this.”

“Oh, thank God,” Robin was relieved she had found the right place. “So you've been dragged into the sneaky Cormoran's games, uh?” Tracey laughed.

“I had to say yes, it was too funny. So, you're coming to get some lunch and then we'll move to your next clue.”

Robin was surprised and amazed when Tracey sat her down for a big plate of sausages and pasta, that she devoured. Brain activities always made her hungry. She drank a full glass of wine and then Tracey gave her riding boots and the green clothes that the horse had been wearing to put on.

“I'm supposed to take a pic,” Tracey said, lifting her phone once Robin came out of the bathroom fully dressed. Robin snorted a laugh.

“Fine, go ahead.” Tracey took it and sent it to Strike, and then guided Robin to a brown horse.

“This is Flopsie. Complete the circuit thrice without fail, and you'll get the clue.”

Robin pet Flopsie for a bit to earn its trust and then climbed on it. She had to complete a typical circuit of riding championships, jumping and all. Robin hadn't done those in a while, but she was excited and, without much problem, she completed the task successfully and was given another envelope. In Latin, with the translation in English next to it, scribbled, it read;

_Lesbia, I am mad:  
my brain is entirely warped_

_by this project of adoring  
and having you_

_and now it flies into fits  
of hatred at the mere thought of your_

_doing well, and at the same time  
it can’t help but seek what_

_is unimaginable–  
your affection. This it will go on_

_hunting for, even if it  
means my total and utter annihilation._

Robin read it and smiled to herself, thinking it beautiful. A simple note in the end said 'find me'. Robin had this one crystal clear. Biding farewell to Tracey and thanking her for her hospitality, Robin rushed back to the Land Rover and drove all the way to London as hours passed and the sun started to hide. She was glad today it wasn't raining. The office in Denmark Street was suspiciously empty. Robin decided to barge into Strike's attic with her key, and it was also empty, so she searched for Catullus books. She didn't have to search much, as the book was on Strike's made bed. Robin opened it and found a note in the page that contained the poem.

“Fabulous job! Get ready and meet me behind the building for your reward. C xoxo.” Robin giggled seeing the note. She then observed a big box on the bed and opened it, her jaw dropping as she saw the contents. There was a small, opened box, with a pair of glittery Jimmy Choo's the kind Robin adored, and under the small box, a long, dark blue dress. They matched. “Holly shit...!” Robin flipped. This must've cost Strike... well... his half leg. There was another note that Robin read with a murmur. “Happiest of birthdays to my favourite redhead. Several birthdays and Christmases have gone by without me giving you anything, so I figured you deserved these, that I hope, you like as much as the green one. Who knows, perhaps next time you go undercover it'll be in Buckingham Palace. P.S.: You'll find everything you may need in the bathroom. Oh, Cormoran...” Robin brushed happy tears off her eyes and lifted the dress. It wasn't overly luxurious, it was rather simple, but it was still stunning, in shape somewhat alike the green one.

Robin went to Strike's tiny bathroom and found the bag where she usually kept all her make-up, perfume and hairbrush. Smelling of horse, Robin decided to shower quickly and get ready as fast as possible, not knowing how long Strike had been waiting for her. Knowing Strike liked neatness, she folded her other clothes and put them on the armchair she saw, and put her other things on top. The Jimmy Choo's were so comfortable Robin was amazed, as she hadn't gotten to try them on before.

She found Strike smoking with his back against his BMW, parked behind the building. Hearing her heels, he turned to look at her, handsome in his suit, and he grinned widely, his eyes crinkling.

“Beautiful!” Strike complimented, both of them blushing.

“You are crazy,” Robin smiled, hugging him tightly as he pressed the cig on the ground with his heel. He smelled of shaving cream, clean clothes, and shampoo, and she smelled of flowered perfume, mostly. Strike loved her hugs, he had decided. “Thank you very much. You didn't have to do any of this.”

“I know,” Strike chuckled, looking her up and down. “It really looks good on you. Better than at the store. So, have you figured out what's going on?”

“You're taking me out for dinner for my birthday,” said Robin, who had thought a lot about it as she got ready. The corner of Strike's lip twitched upwards.

“Not too far. Let's go.”

Strike drove the BMW to an industrial area Robin didn't know, and he parked in front of an industrial unit, and they got out of the car. Robin was visibly confused.

“Do you trust me?” Strike asked Robin.

“Absolutely,” replied Robin right away. He smirked.

“Close your eyes.” Strike said. Robin did as she was told and she felt the hairs of her arms rise as Strike's hands wrapped around hers, calloused, big and warm, and guided her forward. Robin kept her eyes closed as Strike indicated a couple steps and she heard a door open.

Then suddenly, Robin heard:

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY ROBIN!” Robin's eyes opened and she felt them fill with tears as her hands flew to her mouth.

She was in a large room decorated with golden balloons with big '28' written on each, and there were decorations hung from the walls, half a dozen tall, small, round tables with paper golden tablecloths and surrounded by stools, and a large table on one corner, full of presents and bags of food and bottles with drinks and plastic champagne glasses. The music started blasting through the room as soon as her eyes opened. The room was also full of some of her favourite people; Ilsa, Nick, Barclay, Lucy, Greg, Louis, friends from Masham she hadn't seen since her wedding, her brothers, Jenny, her favourite cousin Katie, Vanessa with her boyfriend, and Eric and April Wardle. On one side, Robin saw there was also a small, low, stage, with a microphone standing in front of a stool, and a guitar inside it's bag on the floor.

Scores of smiling friends looked at her standing with elegant clothes, all handsome and pretty, and Robin held back a sob and looked at Strike with a tearful grin. He was smiling back.

“You are absolutely unbelievable,” she hugged him again, tightly.

“You deserve it all,” Strike replied.

Robin thanked everyone and greeted with hugs and tearful laughs as the music filled the room. The room was soon filled with toasts, drinking, chatting, laughing, dancing, and at one point they stopped to wrap a scarf around Robin's eyes and make her break the piñata (adult one containing glow sticks, temporary tattoos, some sweets, lip balms and body lotion, as well as tons of confetti). They ate and chattered and Robin blew her candles on a cake Lucy had made herself, and on the small stage they started a bit of karaoke night. Even a very drunk Strike was convinced to go sing a song with what turned out to be his guitar, making Robin laugh and also feel something warm and chirpy inside she didn't know what it was. As it got late and they grew tired, music got calmer and Strike offered Robin a dance, as Rod Stewart's _All for love_ began.

“I didn't know you could dance,” Robin commented letting him lead her into the dancing area. “You're a box full of surprises tonight, Mr. Strike.”

_When it's love you give, I'll be your man of good faith. When it's love you live, I'll make a stand I won't break, I'll be the rock you can lean on. Be there when you're old. To have and to hold._

“Good surprises?” Strike asked, putting a hand on her hip and thanking the bravery of alcohol for letting him do such things.

“The best ones,” Robin smiled, putting her arms around Strike's neck, seeing the way his breath caught.

_When there's love inside, I swear I'll always be strong. And there's a reason why, I'll prove to you we belong. I'll be the wall that protects you, from the wind and the rain from the hurt and the pain. Let's make it all for one and all for love. Let the one you hold be the one you want the one you need. Cause when it's all for one it's one for all. When there's someone that you know then just let your feelings show and make it all for one and all for love._

For a moment, they let the song say all they couldn't say. Robin leaned her face against his shoulder, taking in the scent from his neck. His tie was loose now, and Robin's nose brushed against Strike's neck, making his heart skip a beat as they spun in circles around the room, without caring about anything else. Strike couldn't dance so much with his leg, but Robin didn't seem to mind, relaxed into his arms as she was, with her eyes closed.

_When it's love you make I'll be the fire in your night. Then it's love you take, I will defend I will fight, I'll be there when you need me. When honour's at stake, this vow I will make. That it's all for one and all for love... Let the one you hold be the one you want the one you need. Cause when it's all for one it's one for all. When there's someone that you know then just let your feelings show and make it all for one and all for love_

There was something comforting about feeling the other one's heart against their chest, Strike's cheek against her hair, as they gave into the music. Listened to it, Robin suddenly realized; she did not only not love Matthew anymore, which she had noticed over two months prior, but she might be in love with Cormoran. In love with her friend, her colleague, her partner... wasn't it just gratitude?

_Don't lay our love to rest, cause we could stand up to the test. We got everything and more than we had planned. More than the rivers that run inland. We got it all in our hands. Now it's all for one and all for love... Let the one you hold be the one you want the one you need. Cause when it's all for one it's one for all... When there's someone that you know then just let your feelings show. When there's someone that you want. When there's someone that you need. Let's make it all all for one and all for love_

Strike didn't want to let go of her. She was free, to be all she could be, for them to see what they could be together... and for one moment, as they stared into each other's eyes, Strike was sure they could be magnificent together. They always had. And as he stared into her eyes, for one moment, he was sure she was thinking the same thing.

  
  


 


	8. Drama queen

The days that followed were full of lingering looks, touches a second too long, overly enthusiastic smiles, and _moments_. Sometimes Robin wondered if they had agreed to date without anyone really knowing it. Their accidental kiss months before came often into each other's minds without the other one knowing, being a memory they relished with, and they had started going out for lunch often, even mere walks. They hugged quite often, so much that now it was a normal thing, as it had become normal to reach to touch each other, a hand on the back as one leant to see what the other was showing in the computer, a hand on the shoulder or upper arm sometimes when they stood by the other, a hand on the knee when they sat together, and no one complained. It was as if each was trying to see how far they could go without the other being uncomfortable, and they both enjoyed all too much the playful bartering, the cut and thrust, the looks here and there, teasing and amusing themselves with the way an action would make the other get chills or the breath catch.

Strike was pretty sure that, as much as he had his own rule not to say I love you, he had very deep, probably love feelings for Robin. He had known her for two years, and he had felt an attraction from the start, and now she knew her personally and well, they had fallen into a relationship based on trust and being there for the other, and Strike had never felt so comfortable and at peace with a woman before, not for such an uninterrupted long time, not so blissfully.

“Robin,” Strike found his partner at her desk one Wednesday after lunch, past her birthday. She looked up, searching him with blue-grey eyes, “I'm going to question Marcia Pott at her country house, want to tag along?”

Marcia Pott had come to them a few days previously, because she had been receiving death threats. She was a powerful woman who was widow of a politician, so they suspected the threats were linked to her late husband's political activity. Robin understood the question held an undertone of 'I'd like it if you could drive me', since he had been limping a little. Strike had lost such a considerable amount of weight thanks to his diet that most of his shirts looked a bit baggy, but his leg still hurt sometimes.

“Yeah, it'd be cool to stretch the legs a little. Let's get my Land Rover, right? It's parked right around the corner.” She saw the expected relief in Strike's eyes, and he nodded.

The pair walked downstairs into the rainy day, a soft drizzle falling, and got into the Land Rover. Mrs Pott was an elderly woman who had a main house in Chelsea but was lately spending most of her time at her country home in the outsides of the city to run away from the threats that had arrived mostly at her house in Chelsea. She was paying them generously, so they didn't mind driving to the outsides.

“I think,” said Strike as he smoke a fag with the window open, “that it could be the son of that woman who lost her house because of Mr Pott's political actions. But there's no proof yet. Mrs Pott called today offering to invite us for tea, said we need to see what they have put with graffiti on her fence wall.”

“Poor woman, she didn't even do anything,” Robin lamented. “And she's old. She must be like, eighty, right? Who would vandalize an eighty-year old woman?”

“Someone very resentful because she's swimming in money and he isn't.”

It didn't take much longer to get to the house. They parked right outside, and were welcomed firstly by the couple bulldogs that seemed to hate Strike and adore Robin, so she stood in front as a wall.

“Detective Ellacott, Detective Strike!” part of the advantage of working for Mrs Pott was that she was always so nice with them, and she received them with a smile. “It's so nice to see you! Roy, Zeus, back! Excuse them, they're very nervous... I think they've spotted the vandals.”

“We're so sorry to hear they've gotten on your property, Mrs Pott,” said Robin as they walked into the drawing room, leaving the dogs behind in the garden.

“I feel better knowing you're going to catch them. Tea?” she offered as Robin and Strike flopped on the sofa.

“Sure,” replied Strike. Mrs Pott went off to get it and he and Robin exchanged curious looks. “No service.”

When Mrs Pott came back with the tea, a bit sweeter than Strike liked it, they questioned her about it out of curiosity.

“Ah, I like to get by on my own. The gardener comes on Tuesdays and Saturdays, the cleaning people on Monday and Saturday, and for the rest of the week, I'm with Roy and Zeus. I like being independent,” she smiled kindly passing them their tea.

They did small talk as they drank tea in the big room, that contained a huge piano and some paintings and sculptures.

“So, where's the graffiti?” Robin asked at last.

“Right outside, on the fence wall,” Mrs Pott got up, ready to guide them.

“Ah, Robin, why don't you accompany her and take pictures for me? The dogs don't fancy me much,” said Strike, dreading going outside and having them bite onto his prosthesis. Robin smiled in understanding and nodded.

The women left the room and Mrs Pott guided Robin through a vegetable garden, the dogs trotting behind, and to a wall in the back of the building. Robin finally saw it. It read 'Fuck you'.

“Not very creative,” Robin murmured, lifting her phone to take pictures. “Don't you have security cameras, Mrs Pott?”

“I do, but apparently they don't cover this patch. They could've easily climbed the wall while I slept, you see? I hadn't realised some areas aren't covered... I'm getting more installed on Monday.” Robin nodded, looking around to see how exactly could one climb the wall. “I'm not even here most of the time, so maybe I'm not as careful as I should be.

“Don't worry Mrs Pott, it's not your fault,” Robin hurried to say. Then they heard a huge explosion and looked up in terror, dogs barking, to see the explosion came from the house, from where now dark clouds of smoke were coming. The house had the ground floor plus one above, where Strike must've been, in the drawing room, and the explosion had knocked down one side of the house.

They hadn't assimilated it yet, when another explosion repeated, blowing-up a good portion of roof, and then there was a terrible sound and the entire roof crumbled down, along a side of the house, everything consumed by roaring flames. It was an old house, mostly wooden, and the fire propagated quickly.

“Cormoran...” Robin breathed out, her eyes burning from the heat emanating from the house. All she could see was a giant bonfire. “Mrs. Pott, call 999, tell them we may have someone gravely injured, now!” Robin shouted Mrs Pott, who quickly pulled her mobile out of her pocket.

Robin didn't stay, she sprinted to the house, running faster than ever in her life. Using a fountain that was on the garden she quickly damped her coat and threw it over herself, and ran inside the house. It felt like being in the oven. The outside drizzle could do nothing against these soaring flames, and it was terribly hot. Robin's eyes burn, she was coughing and gasping for air, her skin felt too warm and she could only see smoke and darkness, even more in the first floor over the ground floor, that was the one in better state.

“CORMORAN! CORMORAN!” Robin shouted with the little oxygen she could get into her lungs. “Cormoran! Cormoran!” she hurried up the stairs and found a devastating scenario.

Robin couldn't distinguish walls or rooms or rooftop. It was just a giant mass of burning wood, like an enormous, gigantic fireplace. Her heart pounding in panic, Robin kept attempting to find Strike. She felt almost like crying from the anxiety, that had created a huge knot in her throat.

“Please don't be dead,” Robin thought to herself. “CORMORAN! Where are you? CORMORAN!” she kept shouting, interrupting herself with coughing. All of the sudden she slumped with something and when she looked down, she saw a bunch of wood, half burning, and an arm she knew too well poking underneath. “No...” Robin kicked the wood off Strike, and knelt, pushing debris away.

Strike lied unconscious, his face dark from the smoke and dirt, blood on his forehead. Robin knew under normally circumstances she shouldn't move him, as he could be gravely injured, but this time she knew she had no choice. She could hear the cracking of wood and the sirens in the far distance. Clenching her teeth, Robin manoeuvred Strike onto her back, not without enormous amounts of effort and thanking the loss of weight on him, and slumped with great difficulty all the way back downstairs and outside the house. The breath of fresh, cold air, came like a bottle of water in the desert. Robin walked through the front garden until she reached the street, where Mrs Pott and neighbours were accumulating, staring at the house in awe, with the dogs, and then Robin put Strike down on the ground as carefully as she could, with some strangers' help.

“Cormoran,” Robin knelt next to Strike, still coughing, and pressed her index and middle fingers against his neck, letting out a cry-laugh in relief as she felt a pulse. “Cormoran, sweetie, wake up, wake up,” she palmed his face softly, brushing dirt off it, and his eyes opened just a bit, and he groaned and coughed. “Oh, thank God! Oh!” Robin sobbed out in relief and, before she could contain herself, she had pressed her lips against his. It only lasted one moment and Strike was mostly out of it, but it happened.

  
  


 


	9. Will you stay?

Robin sat by Strike's bed, holding his hand, bandaged due to the burns, as he slept in a large hospital room, the bed separated from the others by a few curtains to give some privacy. The doctors had said he had a mild concussion and burning in his lungs, which was making him cough a lot so, while he recovered, he'd need oxygen through a mask to help him breathe better. Thankfully they assured a full recovery. Strike's eyes flickered and then opened, looking around with some panic until they set on Robin and relaxed.

“Hi,” Robin murmured, a hand hovering over his face hesitantly for one moment and then falling to cup the side of his face. “There was an explosion, police thinks it was... well... an IED. Two, actually,” she knew Strike owed one the lack of half a leg and she saw the panic in his eyes right away. “Don't worry, you're perfectly fine, in one piece, just some burns, a few broken ribs, and a concussion. The mask is so with the ribs and the burnt lungs you can breathe easier, but the doctor assured you'd fully recover. As a matter of fact, you can go home tomorrow if all goes well.” Strike relaxed again. “How are you feeling?”

Strike raised his free hand to move his mask down.

“Hurts,” he said hoarsely. “But fine.” He breathed from the mask for one moment. “How am I not dead?”

“I went to get you,” replied Robin. “We have each other's backs, right? Partners.” The corner of Strike's mouth twitched upwards and he gave him a slight squeeze.

“Thanks,” he said huskily. “Will you stay?” Robin examined his scared eyes. She knew he disliked hospitals and wondered if part of the fear was being scared they'd amputate him while he slept.

“Of course,” Robin assured, feeling him relax under her touch.

“Cormoran!” Lucy, Greg, Nick and Ilsa had arrived, looking worried and stressed.

Police was keeping Mrs. Pott under police protection in her other house in Chelsea, so Robin was free to stay with Strike, who slept off most of the first day post fire and then was let go home under Robin's supervision. Nick had offered to stay with him, but Robin assured she had it handled; Nick and Ilsa would be receiving Abigail soon, and Nick was needed home, while Robin didn't plan on going anywhere but to Strike's bedside anyway. Lucy and Greg lived so far from Denmark Street, that they were relieved when Robin insisted she'd look after them. Nick and Ilsa did help bring Strike home, because otherwise Robin didn't know how they'd do it. Strike couldn't breathe properly and started panting, holding his ribs and groaning in pain very soon into the first flight of stairs, so a distance that took Robin, at most, ten minutes to climb, took Strike over half an hour, and once he finally made it to bed he lied there, closed his eyes, and focused on getting his breathing back.

“Are you sure you'll be alright?” Nick asked Robin anxiously then.

“Sure, you go prepare for Abigail,” Robin insisted with a small smile. “I've taken care of horses, it's not that different.” She added comically, and Nick and Ilsa chuckled.

“Right then, but call if you need anything at all,” said Nick. Ilsa kissed Strike on the cheek.

“We'll be right back in a heartbeat if you need anything, okay?” Ilsa reminded Strike, who nodded vaguely.

“Go get ready for your girl,” Strike murmured weakly.

The Herberts gone, Robin brought Strike's armchair to the side of the bed and started the laborious process of caring for his burns that the nurse had taught her. First, she had to clean his face carefully of sweat and air dust with a small damp towel that had to be washed daily, patting on his skin carefully, attentive of any grimace. Strike let her do without a complain, on one side touched by her affections and relieved because the fresh water felt so good and on another side, too tired to attempt a complaint. Then, Robin focused on applying generous amounts of cream for burns on his face and hands. The latter also had to be loosely bandaged to protect the burns from the damage brushing with things could do. Strike had been lucky that only his hands and face had been burnt, since he was pretty well covered with clothing.

“I'll make you some soup,” said Robin softly, getting up, putting a blanket over Strike, and going to wash her hands before busying herself in the kitchen. A few minutes later, Robin was back by Strike's bedside, holding a mug of soup. She had put it in a mug so it was easier to feed, as Strike just had to drink it, which he did with hums of approval, opening his eyes just a bit, and with frequent breaks.

Once he had finished, he let out a long sigh and relaxed in bed, lying down.

“Thanks,” Strike said finally. “You should go home now, Robin. You've already done so much.” Robin frowned.

“I'm not going anywhere,” Robin argued. “Here, take your painkillers before you fall asleep, you'll be more comfortable.” Robin added, reaching from the pills and bottle of water on his night-stand and helping him gulp them. Then, she focused on helping him be comfortable, removing his prosthesis and shoes for him, and his cardigan. “You should take off your shirt and trousers though,” Robin commented folding his cardigan and putting it on a drawer, “so you can be more comfortable.” Strike groaned.

“Can you do it?” Strike asked softly.

“What, without preliminaries?” Robin joked, teasing. Strike's lips curved upwards just a bit and looked at her, vulnerable.

“I feel like shit,” Strike murmured. Robin nodded and leaned to stroke his face.

“Don't worry, you're in good hands,” Robin assured. “I'll do it.” Robin buttoned down his shirt ignoring the way her cheeks and other places felt warm at the sight of his bare, hairy chest, and when her fingertips brushed against it, and ignoring how Strike's breath seemed to hitch when she accidentally touched him. Robin used her hands to carefully move the shirt away, slide it down his long, muscled arms, and pull it from under his back. “There you go. I'm going to do your trousers now, alright?”

“Make it sexy,” Strike teased jokingly. Robin side smiled and started humming the intro of Joe Cocker's 'You can leave your hat on' as she undid his belt, making him laugh so hard -and herself, once she joined- that he coughed then, breathless but with the shadow of a smile on his face. “Well done.”

Robin smiled smugly and pulled his trousers down, doing her best not to look from the knees up, then going to accommodate the clothes in the closet. Robin then went back to Strike and helped him slide under the duvet, tucking him in properly. On impulse, she kissed the top of his head.

“Goodnight,” she whispered. Strike's eyes fluttered open.

“Robin,” he whispered in the dark. “Where are you going to sleep?”

“I saw the camp-bed folded in your closet, I'll prepare it right here,” replied Robin, playing with his curls.

“Nonsense,” murmured Strike. “There's room here for us both.”

“I won't risk hurting you in my sleep,” Robin smiled small.

“Then grab the cushions from the sofa downstairs,” suggested Strike. “Make the camp bed more comfortable.”

“I'll do just that. You sleep.”

Robin waited until she heard Strike's soft snoring and grabbed the camp bed, installing it by Strike's bed, so she'll know if he had to pee or anything. Deciding he was about right and the thing looked very uncomfortable, she took the keys and quickly went back to the office and took the cushions from the sofa in the inner office, going back upstairs and putting them on the camp bed. She took a blanket, lied there, and figured that it wasn't too terrible. Strike's snores accompanied her to her dreams.

In the morning, Robin helped Strike through his morning routine and then had her own while Strike managed to eat breakfast on his own, in bed. Robin had brought up a tray from the office, and used it so Strike could eat in bed.

“Alright,” Robin came into his bedroom, buttoning the last couple buttons of her blouse and looking at her partner, on whom they had managed pyjamas earlier in the morning. “How's that?”

“Great,” Strike managed a smile, sitting up as he was against a bunch of pillows. Robin put the camp bed aside by the feet of the bed. “You eat?”

“I'll do in a moment, do you have a thermometer? Nurse said to check for fevers, right?”

“No, but I feel fine.”

“Yeah, sure,” Robin rolled eyes and cupped his face. Strike froze, but instead of kissing him, Robin's lips pressed against an area of forehead that wasn't burnt and covered in cream. “Uh, I think you do have a bit of fever. Well, have your meds,” Robin quickly moved to grab the medication and handed it to Strike, who, still awestruck, took them without complaining.

Robin rushed to the kitchen to make herself breakfast and drink the coldest glass of water she could have, cooling down from the heat that had came to her face as she took Strike's temperature the same way her parents had done with her and her siblings plenty of times. She ate in the kitchen for comfort and washed all the dishes before going back to Strike.

“One of us should go back to work,” said Strike, his arms around himself as he leaned back against the pillows, as if trying to hold himself together.

Right then, there was a knocking on the door.

“Who is it?” bellowed Robin towards the door.

“Sam Barclay!” Robin sighed in relief and opened the door.

“Hi Sam,” said Robin.

“Hi,” Sam came in and looked at Strike. “How're you doing, mate?”

“I'll be fine, but I really don't think I should get up,” Strike murmured, accepting his defeat. The mere thought of speaking any louder already made him cringe. “You two shouldn't be here. Go, hold the agency up together.”

“Yeah, right...” Sam rolled eyes and looked at Robin. “I just thought you should know Lorelei's right at the office. She saw on the News, she's askin' 'bout him.”

“What?” Strike groaned. Robin looked for one man to the other and nodded.

“Fine, I'll deal with her. Can you stay with Cormoran meanwhile?” Barclay nodded.

“Sure, I bought the sports newspaper,” said Barclay lifting up a rolled-up newspaper.

“Robin,” Strike hurried. “Don't you let her up here, I broke up, I don't w...”

“I know,” Robin nodded. “Don't worry.”

Robin hurried downstairs and found Lorelei sitting on the leather sofa in the outside office. Their new temp, Georgia, was already at her desk and greeted her with a smile.

“Good morning,” Robin saluted back.

“Robin! Did you hear about Cormoran?” Lorelei asked anxiously, standing up and hurrying to her. “I saw it on the news, poor thing, look, we've broken-up, but I'm not about to leave him alone when he's all...”

“He is not alone. He never will be,” Robin assured. “I'm looking after her, and so are Nick and Ilsa, and his family and other friends. We'll make sure he's alright. He's already home, in a few weeks he'll be perfectly fine to come back to work.”

Lorelei looked at him in a mixture of surprise and relief.

“I would still like to see him for myself. I lov— I care, about him, a lot,” she corrected, but Robin had already figured things. “If you could just give me his address then...” Robin looked at Georgia and decided this was not the place.

“Come in,” Robin guided Lorelei to the inner office. Two desks sat in the small space, one next to the other forming a 'v' and facing a seat in front of each. Robin motioned for Lorelei to sit down opposite her at her desk, and Robin took her seat, glancing quickly to Strike's empty desk, on which a tower of papers sat. “Lorelei, I know you feel very attracted to Cormoran, and you care a lot about him, I know, but he doesn't want you. He's being taken-care-of, and he appreciates your concern, Sam told him, but he doesn't wish you to visit him and I can't give you his address.”

Lorelei was taken aback and frowned lightly.

“But... but...” Lorelei struggled with herself. “Why does he reject me so much? We were together ten months, ten months, Robin, and he can't seem to value...”

“Men suck,” Robin smiled small. “And I am very, very sorry you had to lose ten months with someone who would never care as much about you. Look, the Internet may portrait Cormoran as a war hero and whatnot, but not even he likes it. He's a human being, flawed, like any of us, and he likes to keep his bed warm at night. He never meant to hurt you, I know that, he thought you were clear that he didn't want something serious, if he had known you'd get so invested I'm sure he wouldn't have started anything. He doesn't enjoy breaking hearts, I promise you, okay? I know him well. And I know underneath his flaws and the way he sometimes objectifies women, he's a gentleman. With Charlotte, he gave his very best for many years... and now he doesn't want to get so invested anymore and have his heart broken, okay, it's just that. I'm sure he considered you a wonderful person, but when someone hurts you like that, it takes a village to dare to get so close to anyone again, and if now he's so insistent to keep you at bay it's just because, as much as he'd love to have sex again, he doesn't want you to get more invested and more hurt, because he knows what that's like, and he knows he can never correspond your feelings because he's just not that much into you. And if it serves of any consolation, he has decided not to have one-night-stands or flings ever again.”

Lorelei looked consternated and sooner rather than later, Robin was offering her the pack of tissues they kept for these things and Lorelei was brushing angry tears from her eyes.

“Ten months! How can he not find me interesting enough after that?”

“He never meant to go further with you, so he went after you knowing that you weren't the kind he'd get so invested with. He's not suicidal, he's not going to risk getting invested.”

“Fucking jerk,” Lorelei blew her nose against the tissue. “I don't even know why I care about him! He's selfish and has the empathy of a tea spoon, he snores like a truck, he's late to dates and that's if he doesn't forget them. I'm always so understanding and comprehensive with him, just to get my arse kicked...”

“But he's also gentle, sweet, brave and protective. He tries to please everyone and he's hard-working and funny, and he shows up when you need it the most.” Robin murmured softly.

Another blow of the noise, a hiccup, and Lorelei was trying to control her breathing and calm herself down.

“He used me for sex.”

“He believed it had been made clear that it would only be sex. You can't lie to yourself saying hey, I'll fix him and make him love me. No. It's not your job to make anyone love you, if they don't, then they don't. Give your time to someone who deserves it and who truly wants what you want. Don't waste it with someone who wants different things.”

“How can you have such a high opinion of him?” Lorelei demanded, almost angrily. “It's as if you think this is decent of a man...!”

“I have a realistic opinion of him!” Robin argued. “Lorelei, I've just divorced a man I was with for about twelve years, whom I had known since childhood. And he was a fucking cheater, you know? A manipulative liar, untrustworthy, but who made everyone bow to his feet and think he was the most perfect prince, including me. I thought he loved me and believe me, you're hurting after ten months but right now I'm nursing a breakup from a man I've known my whole life, whose family was friends of mine, with whom I've got more common friends than own friends. And I'm telling you, you _are_ lucky and Cormoran _is_ a good man, because he's sincere, because he cleared out what he wanted from the start, don't think I don't know, because he wouldn't manipulate you or lie to you, he would never use your computer or phone without your permission, he would never cheat on you, even when what you had wasn't something serious. I'm sure he would've been happy if you had been seeing more people. Cormoran is trustworthy, and he pays for dinner in dates, doesn't he? Hasn't he treated you well for ten months? Didn't he quit things the moment he knew you were too invested, when other men would've lied saying I love you so they could keep getting sex and then gone and have sex with other ten girls as well?”

“Well, yes, but...”

“But what? You know what, I've learnt my mistakes. I'm not going to claim anywhere is perfect, I married someone who was supposedly the perfect Disney prince and was shamelessly used, so I'm not going to defend anyone is perfect, flawless and beautiful. And I hope you learn that lesson too. Cormoran can be cruel, harsh, egoistic and with the sensitivity of an ant, but every day he decides to be the best he can be, to be a good friend, a good uncle and a good brother, to show up when it's necessary, to help clients here who sometimes can't even pay properly but who are so troubled and alone he can't say no to, he doesn't bail, he doesn't abandon anyone to their luck, and he doesn't do pity. He doesn't play the card of poor, invalid veteran to get girls into bed or people to pay him more or be better with him. He knows the world can be cruel and he makes a daily decision to try his best to be the best man he can be, and sometimes, he hurts people, obviously, because he's not perfect nor tries to be... but I assure you he never means to hurt anyone who isn't a bad person, and he never meant to hurt you, and he's not proud of what he's done. He isn't. He's my best friend and he's helped me through the worst times of my life from the minute I met him, and he's been generous and gentle and I'm sorry you got a different version but you knew what you were getting into, so I'm not going to trash talk of a man without whom my life would be hell. So my advice to you is that next time you meet a guy, and they say they are not looking for anything serious, you engrave that in your mind and don't waste your time.” Robin stood up. “Now if you'll excuse me, I'm very busy today.”

Lorelei was speechless. She stood up looking a bit afraid of her and let Robin walk her outside and wish her a good day. Only when Robin was sure Lorelei was gone, she turned to look at Georgia.

“Attend any client we get, take the information and pass it to Barclay and me on the phone, okay? Tell them we'll get back to them as soon as we have a spot for their cases.”

“All right,” Georgia nodded. “What do I tell press? They've been calling all day to hear what happened.”

“I'll write down a formal statement,” said Robin. “Pass it down to anyone who makes questions, tell them that's absolutely all you can say.” She was already moving to fetch paper and a pen and scribble down a quick statement:

_Detective Strike was injured when he was caught in-between as a criminal attacked a third party. This attack is completely unrelated to Strike & Ellacott's Investigations and police is currently investigating it. Additionally, we will be investigating the attack as well for the safety of the third party towards whom the attack was directed._

_As Detective Strike recovers, Strike & Ellacott Investigations will continue to work on any cases we receive and the investigations we have in process at the moment will be completed, even though the amount of cases we can take at once will be lowered. As always, the privacy of our clients and cases is still guaranteed._

_We won't be giving any further information in regards to the attack and we won't be attending the press any further about such matter. For information about the progress of your case, please contact Detective Ellacott or our office's landline, or visit us at Denmark Street, 6, under our regular schedule._

_Thank you._

Passing the note to Georgia, she wished her a good day and hurried back upstairs to Strike, who had fallen asleep. Barclay was sitting on the armchair, reading the newspaper he had brought, and he looked up at Robin.

“All good?”

“Yes,” Robin nodded. She leaned to press a hand against Strike's forehead and decided it was time to take care of his burns one again. It was to be done twice a day. “Sam, I need you to continue investigating as usual and report to me, alright? I have my laptop, I'll work from here and postpone any outside work until Cormoran is doing better, if I leave him alone he'll overwork and hurt himself.”

“That's alright,” Barclay stood up. “Call me then if you or Strike need anything. I can buy groceries if you need.”

“Thanks, I'll call you if anything. You're a life-saver,” Robin smiled accepting a hug and closed the door after Barclay, sitting then on the verge of the bed.

  
  


 


	10. Adoring you

When Strike woke up, he saw Robin on his armchair with a cushion behind her back and her laptop opened on her lap. An area he wasn't occupying at the feet of his bed was covered with papers, notes, case photographs and even a pen. She seemed immersed in work. Strike looked at her with soft, gentle eyes. He found her more beautiful than usual when she was so focused on a case, with her lips slightly pursed in concentration, her forehead slightly creased as her eyebrows furrowed in concentration as well, and a hand suspended in the air, hovering over the keyboard. A strawberry blonde lock of hair had escaped the messy bum Robin had and fell in waves next to her temple. Strike felt desire to brush it aside, or play with it, or something.

He must have been staring with a lot of intensity, because Robin felt it and looked at him, turning her face and smiling.

“Hello, sleepyhead. Feeling better?” said Robin in a sweet voice that made the dragon inside Strike's chest purr.

“Somewhat. Hurts to breathe though,” replied Strike with honesty. He knew lies were a loss of time with Robin. “I had a curious dream...”

“Really?” Robin looked up with curiosity. “What was about?”

“The explosion. I was on the ground and everything hurt and it was so hot, and I could barely breathe,” murmured Strike. “And then... I felt like a kiss, right on the mouth,” he thought Robin blushed, but couldn't be sure with the awful lighting of the attic. “Then everything felt better. Weird, isn't it?”

“Ah, uh...” Robin couldn't lie. She knew what she had done was wrong and he ought to know the truth, and she should apologize. She had kissed him without consent. She felt herself blushing really hard before replying. “It wasn't a dream. It's what happened. I... I kissed you. I'm so sorry!” she added quickly, panicking as his eyebrows raised with surprise. “I just felt so relieved you were alright, you know that of being so happy I could kiss you that they say, right? Well, I guess I just...” she rambled, but Strike stopped her with a hand, his lips curving up a little.

“Don't apologize. It was a great kiss. Made me feel better,” said Strike. That was it. This was their chance. Strike remembered his inner thoughts 'free so that one day, they might find out what they could be to each other'. They had always been great together, and Strike had no doubt, if only they gave it a chance... They had always been such good partners, why would it fail? And Robin had been single for two months, it couldn't be too soon... not when it was about the man you knew so well, you were with all the time, you trusted the most. Robin knew Strike would never manipulate her, lie to her, or treat her wrong. Robin knew. If it was about Strike... he had to be different. Robin was looking at him like he had just hit her with a lamp. “If you'd want to... I could show you how nice it feels like.” Strike murmured.

Robin gulped and Strike looked at her gently, without pressure.

“What if...” Robin whispered. “If I was just afraid that it'll be so nice... and yet it'll break and everything will be ruined? That despite how nice it was... we'll end up hurting each other?” Strike pursed his lips in thought.

“I'd never force you to do something you didn't want to do,” Strike whispered. He didn't have the strength to speak louder. “If you'd want to, we could pretend it all never happened. But I think if we were always so afraid we'd never get to do the things we love, wouldn't we? And I think... I think when people care as much about each other, as we do... there's no reason why things should go wrong.”

“A kiss can't hurt, can it?” Robin asked, daringly.

“No, it can't,” Strike shook his head. “And if it ever got too scary... we could always stop, go slower or... backwards.”

“I think I'd like that,” murmured Robin. She felt her heart going at ten per hour.

“Then put that laptop aside, and come get it, because I can't move much,” the corner of Strike's mouth twitched upwards and Robin felt like kissing it. Their eyes connected and pupils dilated and Robin made an almost imperceptible nod.

She put the laptop aside, picked up the papers, putting them on the dresser, and moved to Strike. With a wince, Strike sat up, supporting his back against the pillows, and smiled gently at her, offering a hand. Robin took it and smiled a little, sitting on the verge of the bed. Strike lifted his other hand to caress Robin's cheek and she closed her eyes, leaning onto it.

“You're the most brilliant woman I know, Robin. And I'm not so bad myself so... I think we'll make it work. It's never been difficult with us, has it?” Strike murmured softly, his voice stroking Robin's eardrums gently. She smiled a bit and opened her eyes, searching for his dark, green ones.

“Except when you sacked me,” Robin teased.

“And now your name is with mine on the glass door. I think we didn't do too bad, right?” Strike said hoarsely, as their faces got impossibly close. He could smell her flowery scent, and she could perceive the smell of clean sheets on him.

“Not too bad at all, Detective,” murmured Robin, and then, she kissed him.

Their lips first met with urgency, quickly transforming into slow, sweet tenderness, a light pressure here, a gentle brush there, and a slow dance started. Robin's hands moved, one to his shoulder, one to the side of his head, careful with the bruised and swelled area on the upper side, and Strike's hands moved as well so his arms were around her hips. The gentle kiss was full of longing, but it didn't last too long, as soon Strike had to pull away, gasping for air.

“So far so good?” asked Strike gently, his arms still around her. Robin smiled and nodded, and this time he kissed her. This kiss was longer and more heated and passionate, their lips colliding full of desire, soft moans whispered into the kiss, and smiles felt beneath their lips.

When they pulled apart this time, Strike had to cough and wince, as he had really gotten breathless this time, and Robin kissed the healthy areas of his face and stroke his hair gently while he recovered.

“I'm going to make lunch,” Robin said at last, gently cupping his face and giving him one brief, soft peck on the lips. “You rest.” Strike smiled and nodded, closing his eyes, and Robin went to the kitchen.

She was still smiling and her heart was still racing and she was still thinking of how wonderful those kisses had been, how gentle and soft he was, even when passionate and hot, how tender his lips were, and how ticklish his stubble sometimes was against her face. Strike was just so wonderful and, for the first time, the adjective that came to his mind was 'sexy'. His old words suddenly came to mind '...next official girlfriend I have, will be with the full intention of, if all goes well, marrying her one day...' and she blushed hard. Did he intend to marry her, if all went well? Were they a couple now?

Robin focused on cooking some macaroni with tomato sauce and grilled cheese and went back to Strike, who was snoring away, peaceful in bed. She smiled softly and put the tray of food on top of the dresser before sitting on the verge of the bed and waking Strike up with daring kisses across his face, until she felt his cheeks move as he smiled and opened his eyes.

“Hello beautiful,” Strike saluted. “Smells great, what've you done?”

“Macaroni,” replied Robin, getting up to bring the tray to him. Strike licked his lips seeing the filled plates.

“Ah, delicious, and it looks so good as well!” he said with enthusiasm. Robin sniggered. Matthew had never been so enthusiastic with her cooking, or anything she did, unless he was looking for something.

They ate in silence, with frequent smiles and lingering glances to each other, a caress here, a touch there, just enjoying their company. Robin went to wash the dishes and came back. Strike patted the bed next to him and she lied with him over the duvet, with a blanket on top. She realised she was tired and, as he put an arm around her, she craved his warmth and cuddled closer, careful with his ribs, moving his arm so she could hug it and he was more comfortable and pressing her forehead against his shoulder, her hands caressing up and down his arm.

“You make me so happy, Robin.” Strike murmured, leaning to kiss her forehead. “I'm so lucky.”

“Considering that you're stuck in bed because a beam on fire fell on your back, broke a few of your ribs, and knocked your head against the floor leaving a swelling the size of an apple, that's pretty miraculous,” Robin teased humorously, making him chuckle.

“Well, the most incredible woman on Earth is lying next to me and kissing me and doesn't mind I'm a disabled old dinosaur ten years older and not too fit. I'd say I'm the luckiest bastard in all of England, even luckier than happily married, well-paid Nick, who's about to be double daddy.”

“That's mean to him,” Robin was touched with the way he saw her, and kissed her shoulder with a grin, interlacing their fingers. “Ilsa's pretty great. And smart, and pretty.”

“She is,” Strike shrugged. “Not my type though.”

“Oh yeah. Your type is models, isn't it?” Robin teased.

“My type's changed. Now I like them redheads, astonishingly skilled, with beautiful blue-grey eyes, contagious laugh, funny, talented, gorgeous and intelligent as hell. And of those there's only one in, I'd say, the world. You.”

“ _My brain is entirely warped by this project of adoring and having you_ ,” Robin recalled. “Smooth.”Strike looked adoringly at her.

“You know, the moment you came into the office, I knew that, if I wasn't careful, you'll make me go mad,” Strike commented. “All this time, that ring on your finger was my assurance that you'll stay at enough distance so I could keep my balance and don't go crazy for you. But now... Funny thing is, now I know you won't make me crazy, because you're the one who makes me feel the most relaxed, balanced and happy. Isn't it ridiculous? All this time trying to protect my peace of mind and life... and turns out, the one who brings me the most peace of mind is you.” Robin beamed, moving to kiss him, supporting her head on his shoulder carefully and putting an arm around his thinner belly. He bent his arm under her to caress her hair.

“You said next official girlfriend you have, will be with the full intention of marrying her one day, if it all goes well. Am I that next official girlfriend?”

“I'd love you to be, if it's what you want. You know what you're getting on board with.”

“Oh well. Turns out enormous, hairy, sweet beasts are my thing. Horse lover, remember?” Robin winked, and he chuckled, but it was lost on their kiss.

“Can't wait to have my ribs heal so I can squeeze you in my arms,” Strike murmured, kissing her again.

Ten minutes later, they were both asleep, cuddling, snoring away.

  
  


 


	11. The perfect family

A couple weeks later, Strike and Robin had gone on a walk to get some fresh air and have Strike stretch a little, only a short walk to a nearby park, and now they were in pyjamas, in bed. Strike lied on his back because it was the only way for his ribs to not scream out in pain, and Robin had her head on a pillow on his lap and the book Strike had gifted her as a divorce present opened on her thighs, reading it while Strike played with her hair and they did small talk. Strike felt so content and blissful like that, as those days they had been together. They hadn't done much, and Strike had often commented how impatient he was to get back on his feet so he could take Robin on official dates, but Robin had been happy to stick at home with him, sometimes they'd go to her flat, when Louis was at work, but it was just weeks of domesticity and lying around a lot and talking and getting to know each other in a deeper way. And for them, it was perfect.

Robin's book was forgotten and she was starting to fall asleep as Strike's fingers, which now she knew were calloused partially because of how much he had played the guitar in his youth, massaged her skull while looking down adoringly at her.

“Cormoran,” came Robin's soft, relaxed voice. Hearing Strike's questioningly hum, she proceeded, opening her eyes. “You told me about your fear of being in cars, and it just occurred to me... years ago, that time we almost got into a car accident, you shouted brakes. At the time you passed it as a silly comment and we laughed it off, but... it was because of that, wasn't it? Was it what you shouted before the Viking exploded?”

“Yeah,” Strike nodded. He had decided to be an open book for her. He knew how much of a big deal it was for her that she knew there were no secrets, that she could always trust him. Honesty had to be one of the pillars of their relationship.

“Did you ever try therapy?” Robin asked, not with sadness, but with mere curiosity.

“I was forced to at first, to be given the green card by the army,” replied Strike calmingly. “Then, like you, I decided it was useless for me. Figured things out with CBT and whatever tricks I could come up with, and it certainly helps having the British Fernando Alonso as a girlfriend,” Strike winked. “But you should've seen the very first car trip I took, when Charlotte, who was a terrible driver, drove me home from the hospital. Had one hell of a panic attack despite having taken enough tranquillizers to sedate a horse.”

“Sounds horrible.”

“Yeah... but sometimes you just give it time, and it gets better. It's like, I can imagine how unappealing sex must've been for you for a long time, but then you got back in track. Sometimes you just need time and patience.”

Robin looked at the ceiling, thoughtful.

“I don't actually like sex in the slightest,” Robin blurted out. She was afraid this would mean an immediate break-up, knowing how essential it was for Strike, but he just looked at her with light concern, playing with her hair. “I somewhat did before but... not since...”

“What exactly is it that you dislike, the penetration or the foreplay?” Strike asked openly, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, but Robin blushed hard and looked super shy suddenly. “Ah, come on Robin, we're a couple now, we have to talk about these things so I know what not to do – when I'm fit to even do anything.”

“Both,” Robin answered timidly. “Is just, none of it. Before, it was something we had to do because that's what couples do, and Matthew pressured and pressured... And it was just okay. I didn't particularly enjoy the way he touched me, he wasn't particularly patient or attentive with foreplay, so then the actual thing...” Robin stared at the ceiling. The idea of looking at him when talking about these things was too embarrassing. “He got more pleasure than I did. I came sometimes, but it wasn't so exhilarating as other people described it to me. It was just okay, you know? Not so great for me to understand what the fuss was about, I still don't get it, to be honest. And then after the attack, I rejected Matthew completely, so he went to Sarah.”

“Tosser,” Strike spat out.

“Yeah. And when we finally got into things again... once again it was that thing I had to do out of pressure. I've never once gone to Matthew dying for sex. It was incredibly difficult for the first hundred times after the attack, always awkward, often painful, and never with... orgasm.” Robin had blushed so hard Strike would've found it adorable if he wasn't busy trying not to get up and murder Matthew. “I told him about these things, but nothing ever changed and sometimes he'd even make me feel guilty. So we did it for him and sometimes, I'd get there but it would never be earth-shattering or anything wow, you know? And for the last couple years, I avoided it as much as I could and hardly got the slightest pleasure from it. He always wanted to be on top, and a man ton top makes me anxious, it seems obvious for me, and he was just so impatient and brusque with foreplay, just throwing in fingers so clumsily, and he would refuse to oral, which would've been acceptable if he hadn't been so awful with his hands, so in the end nothing was okay.” Robin avoided the part when the best sexual experiences came from imagining it was Strike and not Matthew.

Strike pursed his lips deep in thought and calmed himself massaging Robin's skull still, loving the softness of her hair, whose sweet smell he knew would stay in his hand.

“I think it's not that you have a problem with sex, I think you just had the most awful, useless partner,” Strike commented. “I mean, I'd never pressure you into anything, but I think it's elemental knowledge that the foreplay is as important, if not more, than the act itself. It's not like waiting for sex, the whole thing is sex. And women need to be treated with special care when it comes to bed, because men get bossy and then it's all about them and their pleasure – and many forget about women completely. Had enough female friends to tell me.”

“However it is, I'm not enthusiastic about sex,” murmured Robin. “I like kissing you, though!” she said, as if trying to sell her qualities. Strike smiled softly down at her.

“Your job is not to please me, Robin. We'll never do anything you aren't enthusiastic about.”

“That's what they all say at first, my friends told me,” Robin puffed with a sad smile. “It's fine Cormoran. Whenever you really want to have sex, I can stand it, I've done it before.” Strike frowned.

“Robin, what part of making you suffer having to 'stand' something with me would be enjoyable for me? You aren't a whore or a doll. You're a woman. And it would break my heart to make you feel like to make me happy you have to screw yourself because my happiness goes first. It wouldn't make me happy. Besides, I will never lie to you, not even small lies. If I say we won't do anything you aren't enthusiastic about, I fully mean it.”

Robin turned and smiled at him, touched. She believed him. So grateful Robin felt, that she sat up, putting the book aside, and took Strike's face between her hands before giving him one of those mind-blowing kisses that they very often had and made Strike gasp and his pupils grow large, and made her heart skip a beat, burying her fingers into his hair. Separating for air, Robin caressed Strike's thick lip with her thumb and raised her eyebrows suggestively.

“I bought more of that painkilling cream.” She murmured.

“Oh, you're perfect.” Strike kissed her again. “Would you mind...?”

“Get your shirt off, I'll be right back.”

Robin hurried to the bathroom, where she knew she had put the bottle of cream that they had found out worked best with Strike's cracked ribs, that had left an enormous bruise in one side of his torso. The cream was great to sedate the area and lower the swelling. Robin went back to the bedroom and Strike had gotten as far as to open his shirt and lie there with the purest expression of 'oh God, why you do this to me'.

“This isn't how I pictured you touching my naked chest,” Strike joked with a tired expression. Robin leaned to give him a peck on the lips and helped him roll a bit so she could access the injured area better, and then carefully applied a generous amount of cream there. Strike hissed a bit as her fingertips brushed against his bruised skin, and Robin muttered an apologize and leaned to press her lips against his shoulder before helping him to roll back into his preferred position.

When Robin returned from washing her hands, Strike's expression contained a little smile of relief, and she sniggered, lying next to him and turning to kiss his cheek.

“Nice?” she asked.

“It's almost as if they weren't cracked.” Strike whispered in the seventh cloud. “You're an angel.” He added, turning to kiss her. His phone buzzed on the night stand and he puffed, interrupting the kiss to fetch it, in case Jack was unwell again or anything. “Oh, look, it's Abigail!”

Strike showed the phone to Robin, who beamed. Nick and Ilsa looked the happiest she had ever seen them, Ilsa pretty pregnant, as Nick held a little brunette in his arms, who held a teddy bear, and Ilsa kissed the girl's cheek sweetly. It had come with a text from Nick saying 'The Herberts 2012!!! We got the most precious girl in the world!!!' Abigail was indeed, beautiful. She had big cheeks and pouty lips, blue eyes, and curly brown hair, and even though there was sadness in her eyes, she was smiling sincerely, showing her few teeth, and looked relaxed. Strike had already typed a response 'Biggest congratulations from Aunt Robin and I! Can't wait to meet her when I'm more in shape xoxo'.

“It's so sweet,” Robin returned the phone. “They're so happy. They deserve all the best.”

“Yes they do,” Strike chuckled. He then looked at Robin and frowned lightly. “You look tired, so focused on caring for me as you've been, why don't you take a nap?”

“Are you sure? What if you're in pain or anything?”

“Don't worry so much, I survived forced amputation, this is nothing,” Strike kissed her briefly and patted his healthy chest. Robin smiled, supporting her cheek on his hairy chest, that felt like a warm, soft, hairy pillow, and putting an arm around his bare belly. Strike pressed his cheek against the top of her head and wrapped an arm around her, and she was soon deep asleep.

 


	12. My everything

_November 23 th 2012._

“Are you sure you're feeling alright?” Robin asked unsure as she drove the Land Rover to Octavia Street in Wandsworth while Strike adjusted in the copilot seat with a pillow against his back for extra comfort.

“Yes, don't worry,” Strike squeezed her hand comfortingly. He had been injured about five weeks previously, and Robin and him had been together for about the same length. In the last week, as Strike's concussion's symptoms had disappeared, Robin had been able to go back to actively work six hours a day, since before, knowing Strike was not only in pain, but could get dizzy and faint or fall very easily, she hadn't dared to leave him alone. He hadn't been able to sit up without the room spinning a little, so even less take care of himself.

Robin smiled small and nodded.

“How does it feel to be thirty-eight?”

“A bit less terrible having in count I've managed to get a perfect woman, ten years younger, to like me. I just hope you still like me when my hair gets white before yours, starts receding, and my skin becomes crinkly,” he said teasing. Robin rolled eyes.

“Are you kidding? When you're okay you cook, clean and iron, I will always like you.” Strike laughed.

They were on the way to Strike's birthday dinner. Since he was still not hundred percent alright, and only worked from the office still, without daring to move much, he had wanted something simple, with just the closest friends and nothing else. Robin, being his girlfriend, had organised things so everything was of his taste, and Nick and Ilsa had offered to host, since they didn't want to bring Abigail into unknown places just yet. Besides, with Ilsa being six months pregnant now and with how much the temperatures had dropped out in the street, they didn't feel much like moving.

Nick and Ilsa's house came to view and Robin found a place to park near enough, although Strike still held onto Robin with an arm around her shoulders for extra support as they walked. Standing up still made him feel a bit unwell.

“Happy birthday!” Nick beamed opening the door and carefully hugging his best friend. “How are you doing mate? You look better.”

“I feel much better, mister Dad,” Nick looked thrilled at the nickname and he hugged Robin affectionately as well.

“You look beautiful Robin, nice dress!”

“Thank you. We brought this for Abigail,” Robin lifted a small bag and Nick smiled pulling a little purple shirt from it that said 'WORLD'S GREATEST NIECE'.

“Aw, Ilsa's going to love it. Come in, Abby is just having some dinner so she can go to bed early.”

The three walked inside into the kitchen-cum-dining room. The little girl was seen sitting at the table devouring a plate of pasta while Ilsa sat next to her.

“Happy birthday!” Ilsa stood up to hug Strike and Robin and make the classical 'how's it going' questions. “Abby, love, we have someone very special to introduce you to.” Abby looked up shyly and Ilsa smiled caressing her hair. “This is Uncle Cormoran, he's Mum and Dad's best friend, you know? He's the coolest guy! And she's Aunty Robin, a dear friend as well.”

“Hi...” Abby said timidly.

“Hello,” Strike and Robin said enthusiastically.

“Look what they brought you, sweetheart,” said Nick showing her the shirt.

“Purple!” Abigail beamed.

“She loves purple, you just nailed it,” Ilsa smiled and then laughed reading the shirt. “Isn't it right though?”

“Thank you!” Abigail said to Strike and Robin happily.

Strike and Robin bonded with the little five-year-old before the girl's bedtime came, when the parents excused to go read her a bedtime story and tuck her in bed. In the meantime, Strike and Robin received Lucy and Greg, who had come around after making sure their children were settled with their nanny for the night, and Strike's oldest friend Dave Polworth with his wife Penny. Even though the Polworths lived in Bristol, Penny's parents were from London and still lived there, so they tried to come up every weekend or a couple weekends a month, and this time they had organised it so Penny's family could take care of their daughter while they came to celebrate Strike's birthday.

“I hope you'll find this of your liking,” Dave smirked, handing Strike a bottle of Brandi.

“You know me so well,” Strike looked at the bottle with admiration.

“Welcome! Sorry, we were just putting Abby to bed,” Ilsa and Nick arrived hugging everyone.

“How's the little girl doing?” Lucy asked as they moved to the dining table and food started being brought from the kitchen.

“Oh, she's fantastic,” Ilsa grinned. “A dream come true, we're the happiest.”

“Look all the drawings she's made already!” Nick pointed to a wall they had covered in child drawings, many of them showing what could only be the Herberts. “She even drew her little brother.” He added pointing to a baby drawn in a figure that ought to represent Ilsa.

The table was soon filled with food and drinks and they toasted on Strike's honour.

“And how're you doing Corm?” Penny asked as they ate. “Lucy told us you've been on leave for weeks, that bad was it?”

“Well, actually, it's nothing, a concussion that's already healed and a few broken ribs. It's just that the symptoms suck so much I could hardly get up from bed,” Strike explained serving his new Brandi to Robin. “Thankfully Robin's been super helpful, I couldn't get up to cook because it made me dizzy, and the slightest movement hurts like a bitch with cracked ribs, you see? So forced bed rest. Robin held the fort up and made sure our employees worked hard in my absence, and she's been working a lot as well, she's a life-saver. With a bit of luck we'll get some nice Christmas holidays as a compensation.”

“We're partners, that agency is as much my business as it is yours, of course I'd work my butt off for it,” Robin replied sympathetically.

“There's also the fact that Robin and I are now dating,” Strike added casually. Lucy's eyes shot up and she squealed and hugged Robin, who sat next to her.

“Yes!” Lucy exclaimed, and they giggled.

“I think Luce said it well, congrats!” Ilsa added happily.

“Finally one girl everyone likes,” Dave looked happy as well. “Well done Diddy. Robin, bless you.” Robin sniggered.

“We're keeping things quiet though, only you know,” Robin clarified. “The journalist were already constantly knocking on our door when Laing was caught, for what I heard, but ever since the fire it has gone wilder, and if they see us kissing or something they'll see there's gossip and go for it, hindering our surveillances and invading our privacy.”

“Talking about the explosion, any idea who did it yes?”

“Yeah, someone we suspected before the explosion,” replied Strike. There were bags under his eyes from not sleeping well and despite this, he still looked cheerful. “We're pretty sure it's a young boy, I did some research and saw there are accurate descriptions of how to build an IED on the internet and libraries. Problem is, he's a minor of age. Our friend Wardle at the Met has sent a team looking for him, but so far no luck, although chances are, he'll just go to a reformatory. Besides, he'll say he didn't know someone was home, that he only meant to damage property, not hurt anyone.”

“So he wasn't going after you?” asked Greg.

“No, he was going after our client. She's an old woman, thank God she wasn't in the house. She and I had just gone out and Cormoran had stayed behind because our client's dog would've otherwise bitten onto his leg,” Robin explained. “Cormoran doesn't remember anything, right? But police said they think the IEDs were thrown into the house through windows and they exploded when they hit the floor.”

“Oh, and it was just a kid?” Lucy frowned. “Damn.” Robin's phone rang and she checked it before deciding to answer or not.

“Oh, it's Mum, I'll be right back,” Robin murmured, rushing to the back garden. Strike took advantage to fetch some of her chips.

“I thought you were on a diet,” Dave murmured to his ear.

“I'm just helping her finish the plate,” Strike murmured back. Robin was back a moment later. “Everything okay?”

“Yes, it was nothing urgent so mum said we could talk later. By the way, she wishes you a very happy birthday and told me to give you a kiss,” Robin kissed him on the cheek before sitting down.

“What a sweet woman,” said Strike. “I'll be happy if you're like her when you're old.” Robin smiled sweetly at him.

“Does Mr. Ellacott like you dating his little girl?” Nick teased Strike, who shrugged.

“Michael doesn't know his little girl got a new boyfriend,” Strike explained. “Part of the secrecy deal. We'll tell them when we go there for Christmas, Robin doesn't want Matthew to know just yet and their village, Masham, is really tiny; everyone knew about Laing the morning after he was arrested, and everyone will know we're together in the blink of an eye.”

“Then why postpone the inevitable? Who cares what Matthew thinks?” Ilsa commented, looking at Robin, who sighed.

“It's not that I particularly care, but people get very judgemental in Masham. If on Christmas they hear I've been dating someone else for something vague like 'a few weeks', they won't go around bothering me and my family saying that I'm some whore that got with someone else not two months after signing for divorce. It's not that anyone cares what some jerks say, but it would bother and I'd rather spare everyone the awkwardness,” Robin explained. “Besides, Matthew loved to accuse me of cheating with Cormoran, and if he finds out now, he'll draw the conclusion that that's exactly what I did, and I have too much pride for that.”

“Yeah, he's now with Sarah, so he gets to be the bad guy, but if they hear Robin moved on then they'll say poor Matthew found someone else because his wife cheated,” added Strike. “We'd like not to receive unjustified resentment.”

“He's already dating the woman he cheated on with?” Greg frowned. “That guy is a mediocre bastard, what a lack of respect towards you.”

“He came to sign the divorce with her,” said Robin with a smirk, rolling eyes. “Needs to keep up his appearances of desirable man, but he's actually afraid of being alone.”

“I don't understand why people date those who cheated on their partners with them, what do they think, that they won't cheat on them? That it'll be any different?” Penny commented.

“Those people tend to have such little self-esteem that they're willing to risk it,” said Strike. “And Sarah Shadlock, for what I saw at the wedding, seems like the typical person who needs to be the centre of attention at all costs, to feel desired, she's another cheater with absolutely not an ounce of decency. Matthew's really downgraded with girls, he had Paris' real Eiffel Tower and he exchanged it for a plastic key-chain of the Eiffel Tower.”

“You're the sweetest,” Robin gave Strike a peck on the lips, more than pleased.

Soon, Lucy and Nick brought the cake they had made and, as Strike prepared to make a wish and blow the candles, he realised he already had everything he could wish for.

 


	13. Little boy

**Chapter 13:**

On a snowy weekend a couple weeks after Strike's birthday, Louis was on a trip with his boyfriend so Robin invited Strike, who was way more recovered, home for a romantic dinner date. She cooked something nice, put on a pretty dress, put the heater on, cleaned the flat, and Strike wore a navy blue suit and bought a bouquet of flowers. He knew Robin wasn't the kind of girls you could just charm with flowers, but he also knew she liked them, because she had happily taken them during the Lula Landry's murder investigation. He didn't have money for an expensive bouquet of flowers, so the flowers were all different, which made it look like a wild bouquet full of different colours.

“Woah,” Strike smiled when Robin opened the door and he saw her. “You're just... prettiest girl in London.”

“Get in, flatterer,” Robin smirked moving aside to let him in, turning once the door was locked behind her and putting an arm around his neck to bring him low for a kiss, feeling his lips curve upwards against hers. “Mmm you smell so nice, is that cologne?”

“Sister's birthday gift,” Strike shrugged. “These are for you.” He gave her the flowers, and she smiled.

“Thank God, I thought you had another date after this,” Robin joked, going to put them in a vase, kissing him on the cheek as she passed him on her way to the kitchen. “Get comfy!” she shouted.

Strike took his snow-covered coat off and put it on the entry's hanger before moving inside. There was soft background music, like jazz or blues, and everything was neat, clean, organised, which was almost a turn-on, united to the smell of stuffed aubergines coming from the kitchen. Strike approached Robin from behind, making sure to step on with enough force to be heard so she wouldn't get startled, and then hugged her from behind as she put the flowers in a vase, kissing her neck.

“Smells incredible,” Strike commented.

“I'm glad you think so,” Robin turned to kiss him again. “Are you still cold, want a blanket?”

“No, I'm fine,” Strike assured, kissing her again.

“I was dying to see you,” Robin admitted, putting her arms around him. “My warm, big teddy bear...” Strike smiled against her hair.

They dinned chatting, stopping to exchange kisses and caress each other, holding hands over the table and just being cheesy and romantic, and then they sat on the sofa cuddling with a blanket to watch a terror movie that they found randomly on TV. Strike at first thought it was a bad idea because it had some assault scenes, but by the time it got so dark, Robin had already gotten so into it -and Strike too- that she didn't want to change channel. 'It'd be fine' she had assured. By the time the movie ended, Robin was so fine she had fallen asleep between Strike's arms, looking so small surrounded by the size of Strike. He smirked tightening his arms around her and kissing her forehead, turning the TV off, and soon he had fallen asleep as well.

It didn't last long, though. At some point, the sound of whimpering and contained sobbing woke him up, and immediately he felt Robin trembling in his arms. He looked at her, frowning, and saw she was asleep and had tears rolling down her cheeks as she whimpered.

“No... please.. no...” she was murmuring. Strike frowned, brushing the tears off her cheeks.

“It's okay Robin, it's just a dream,” he said softly. But then it sounded as if she couldn't breathe, so Strike violently shook her awake, scared that she was going to asphyxiate or something. Robin woke up startled, and started coughing, gasping for air with a hand on her throat, and Strike quickly moved to see if her could help. “Robin! Are you alright? You were having a horrible dream...” But Robin was speechless. When she could finally breathe, she was so startled that she was still shaking in fear, and looked at him with glassy eyes, opening and closing her mouth without making a sound. “Come here, darling. I've got you, it's okay.” Strike opened his arms and Robin squeezed against him, letting his warmth and size make her feel protected and safe, noticing how she took deep breaths and calmed herself down, until she seemed alright again.

“I'm sorry,” Robin said. “I just... You were right, I shouldn't have watched that movie. It must've triggered...”

“It's alright,” Robin pulled apart, brushing her eyes, and squeezed his hand.

“Thank you. God, that was just...” she shook her head.

“Sometimes we become so optimistic thinking we're not going to get triggered, that we're not careful enough,” Strike smiled small.

“Yeah,” Robin let a long breathe out. “I'm okay now. It's just an ugly memory.” Strike nodded. “By the way, how's it going? I mean... you did suffer two explosions now, and you had trouble sleeping, is it okay now?”

“Well I just fell asleep on you,” Strike side smiled. “Yeah, well... it's never fully okay, never has been. Every once in a while I have a wonderful night but most of the time is either army things or my mum. I was a bit scared that the second explosion would make things from the first one worsen, to be honest, but I don't even remember it. All I remember is we were chatting on the sofa, and then I woke up in the hospital, I don't even remember you and Mrs Pott leaving. Do CBT anyway just in case, who knows...” he shrugged. Robin kissed him on the cheek.

“Let's go to bed. We've had a great date and now it's time to rest.” She took his hand and led him to bed. She went to change in the bathroom and Strike threw in a pyjama tee and shorts that he kept in the house for these things, and got in bed, where Robin joined him shortly after. She kissed him. “Sweet dreams.”

“You too,” Strike smiled, and rolled to throw an arm around her, accommodate his forehead against her shoulder blades, and soon they were both asleep.

In the morning, when Strike woke up, Robin was sleeping away peacefully and he found she was just too cute to wake her up, so he went to make breakfast, but found out they had pretty much emptied the fridge during dinner, so he grabbed a change of clothes that he had there and dressed to buy some groceries. He kissed Robin on the forehead and scribbled her a note on a post-it he found on a drawer, to let her know he'd be right back with breakfast, and went down the stairs.

It was so early most places were still closed, so it took Strike a bit of wandering around to finally find an open place where they sold enough to make a decent breakfast to his girlfriend. Satisfied with himself, he took the plastic bag with contents and started the fifteen-minute walk back to Robin and Louis' flat. He hadn't been walking long, however, when he caught a glimpse of something that called his attention through the corner of his eye.

Turning around into an alley, he saw no less than Jeff Whittaker standing there, smoking some strong drug, judging by his expression of being high. He had his back against the wall of the alley and he was all alone, seemingly relishing his moment of bliss in solitude. Strike felt his blood boil straight away. His mother's murderer was there, with that stupid smirk on his face, enjoying himself while his mother would never come back. And he was merely ten minutes from Robin's flat, what if he was after her? What if he hurt her? What if he _killed_ her? He had killed many women and police would never do anything. It was his chance. Only he could stop it, and he had to take advantage, now that he was alone.

He carefully put the bag on the floor inside the porch of a building's backdoor and walked to Whittaker. He wouldn't kill another one of his women. He wouldn't hurt anyone else in his life. He wouldn't put a finger on Whittaker. Strike felt his heart racing faster as he approached his mother's killer. He couldn't see anything else but Whittaker, a murderer who would never be caught by police, someone he had tried without luck to imprison for the past seventeen years of his life, someone who abused every woman he touched, like Trewin had abused Robin.

“Whittaker,” Strike growled. The alley formed a 'T' going from one street to another and also between the back of two buildings, which was the part where Whittaker was, as Strike had saw him when crossing to the parallel street, they were hidden well enough.

Whittaker looked up and saw Strike and chuckled smugly.

“Well, if it isn't the little boy! Whatdya doin' here, mate?”

“I should be the one asking. Who are you trying to attack now, uh?” snapped Strike. He wouldn't touch Robin. He wouldn't break his heart again. He wouldn't break another family. He wouldn't put anyone else through the pain he had caused the Strikes. Whittaker merely laughed again. He was so disgustingly high and drunk.

“Attack? I ain't need t'attack an'one for 'hem to open their legs for me,” said Whittaker. “All y'mum needed was to write her a song, say I love you, and she'd jump on my dick! Girl didn't even see a lie, fuckin' whore she...” Strike didn't realise he had punched him hard on the face until he saw Whittaker lying on the floor, vulnerable, groaning and covering his bloody nose.

In the army, Strike had killed for less. He had never felt guilty, knowing everyone he hadn't killed would've killed someone else. And Whittaker had and would continue to kill, but he could stop it, who'd blame him? He'd be saving countless women and their children, their entire families... saving their lives, keeping them happy. Whittaker was worthless; no one would miss him, police should even be grateful. And it was just so easy. He was now forty-three, gaunt, they'd think it was a fight between drug gangs. He couldn't even stand up, Strike noticed, as Whittaker tried in vain. It was disgusting. He was so mediocre, so laughable, such a piece of crap... Strike raised his good foot and kicked him as hard as he could on the abdomen.

Whittaker was just like any other threat he had been asking to eradicate in the army. What was the difference? He was dangerous. He was going to kill. Strike needed to eradicate the threat, he had been trained for that, it was what he knew how to do best. He had to eradicate the threat so everyone was safe. There was no other choice. His mum would understand; Whittaker was like any other terrorist. He had killed people for less.

Strike was then on top of Whittaker, punching and punching and punching. He couldn't think straight. All he could think was 'he's going to kill, save them, save them, you have to eradicate the threat, sergeant, it's an order, it is an order!' and he saw red. Losing control over himself, Strike just gave in to punching and punching, until his fist was swollen and bleeding and until Whittaker wasn't moving. His face was covered in blood, and Strike had hit his head so many times against the concrete floor that it was also bleeding. Strike was sure to have broken some ribs as well. Whittaker was making not one noise, not even gasping for air, he didn't seem to be moving one bit. Strike was breathless. He felt dizzy. He looked at his hands, saw them swollen, bleeding a bit, bruised. Strike heard sirens. He had to run. Run. He had to go. Now.

Strike rushed to grab the bag and as fast as he could with his stump, rushed outside the alley, his fists stuffed in his pockets, sure the blood hadn't splashed his clothes. Strike fumbled with his shaking hands with the keys to open the flat door and rushed in, shaking like a jelly. Eradicate the threat. He was a sergeant. It was his job. He had to save people. Whittaker would've killed more women.

  
  


  
  


 


	14. Protecting for fairness

“Cormoran, finally! I thought you had gotten lost, you forgot your phone...” Robin appeared around the corner and froze. Her boyfriend looked extremely pale and shaken-up. She looked down, saw the bag dropped on the floor, his eyes lost and empty, his hands bruised, swollen. “Oh God, what happened? Did someone attack you? Cormoran!” Robin rushed to him, cupping his face. “Are you hurt? Are you alright?” Robin opened his coat, touched his torso, making sure there were no injuries, no wincing, he was fine. “Cormoran, what the hell happened?” Robin looked up, but he didn't seem to be there mentally. She cupped his face and shook him up a little. “Cormoran! Look at me! What-have-you-done?!” Strike's breath hitched and he let a shaky breath out, blinking rapidly and then focusing his pupils on hers. His lip trembled.

“I...” Strike murmured. “I...”

“Baby,” Robin stroke his hair gently and helped him sit on the sofa. She kneeled in front of him and cupped his face, keeping her eyes into his. “I need you to tell me what's happened.”

“I... I eradicated the threat.” He nodded. Robin looked confused.

“Threat? What threat?”

“Jeff Whittaker,” Strike said. “He was going to kill. I couldn't let him hurt anyone else, Robin. I had to protect you, and all those girls and children... you saw how he treated Stephanie as well. I had to do it, Robin. There was no choice. Police wasn't doing enough,” Robin's eyes widened and for one moment she thought she forgot how to breathe. “I am a sergeant,” Strike said firmly, nodding. “I had to. It's my job. They sent me to kill the bad guys. He's dangerous.

“You are Cormoran Strike, and you are a detective, not a sergeant. Your job is to find the truth, not to attack anyone,” Robin replied. “Where is Whittaker, Cormoran? Where is he?” Strike murmured the address and Robin ran to her phone, dialled Wardle and gave him the address. “Eric, I just passed by and I saw a fight, is near my house. I forgot my phone at home so I had to run here to get it. I don't know if there's anyone hurt, just go and take a look, okay? Thank you. No, of course I didn't intervene, I heard it, sounded like a big fight and I was alone without phone or anything! Alright, see you.” She hung up and looked at Strike. “Wardle will check it out himself, and come make questions if necessary. We need to get you in the shower.”

Robin helped Strike into the shower, putting his clothes to wash, showering with him, and made sure any traces of blood or dirty were gone. Robin cured Strike's hands and bandaged them and got dressed.

“If anyone asks, they're growing new skin after the burns, which is actually not a lie, and you need to keep them protected,” said Robin while helping Strike into his pyjama, hands bandaged.

“But, Robin, I...”

“You were here,” Robin insisted. “I woke up, went for my morning run, very early in the morning, you were asleep. I thought I heard people fight, so I came as fast as I could, called Wardle, then showered because I was sweating, and you woke up, only then, you woke up, and I told you what had happened. You've slept bad, you had nightmares all night, you're tired, so you need to rest, he won't insist then.”

“Robin, if he's dead, I will be the first person they investigate,” said Strike in a murmur. “There is probably some camera or witness who saw me in the area, not you. We can't lie.”

“We have to,” Robin insisted anxiously. “Cormoran, don't you see? If you have killed him and they find out, we will lose everything! The agency, your life, you will spend your life in prison, Cormoran, don't you understand? And when you're in prison, with those you imprisoned, they will kill you. We can just say some gang must've done it. You're still recovering from the explosion, we'll say you don't feel well enough yet to ask many questions, you're not even doing surveillances yet. Cormoran, what difference does it make for him, uh? He's a bad person, he doesn't deserve justice, Leda never had it. And you're a good person. You lost control, but I won't lose you over this. We will lose everything we have, Cormoran. Everything.”

Strike was going to argue, but the intercom rang. Robin's eyes widened and she pushed Strike into bed.

“Quickly! Do your best to fake sleep. Snore or something.” Robin rushed.

“I still think this is a terrible idea...” Strike grumbled sliding into bed.

“I'm saving yours and the agency's arses,” Robin insisted. “Cormoran, do you trust me?” her blue-grey eyes gazed into his dark green ones, and Strike nodded.

“With my life.”

“Then let me protect you. You're not a bad man and you won't go to prison like one. You've been through so much, you weren't in your right mind, you didn't know what you were doing, and you won't pay like a criminal.”

Strike did his best to do as Robin had ordered, and she pulled the blinds down and put her bedroom in total darkness to keep him hidden. Robin then rushed to open doors, and Wardle was in the sitting room in a moment.

“You heard well,” Wardle commented coming in. “I need to know everything you know, Robin.”

“Sure, but first of all, is everyone alright, did I warn quickly enough?” asked Robin. She had impersonated many women as a detective, and she knew by now how to do the best acting, showing up only slightly anxious and worried while her mind was hysterical thinking what had happened for Strike to attack Whittaker and then be so distressed he was absent and disoriented. He must be struggling a lot, and Robin wanted to help as soon as possible, but for that, they needed to get the police off their arses first.

“It looks like someone beaten the guy up pretty badly, the paramedics resuscitated him,” Robin's eyes widened and her jaw dropped. “They think he's paralysed from the neck down, has some vertebrae broken around the neck, so they think it could've affected his spinal cord pretty badly. He's in coma now, at the hospital. You won't believe who it was.”

“Who?” asked Robin with a frown. “Oh my God, not a friend, right? Not Sam or Andy...?” she added anxiously.

“No, no... Jeff Whittaker. I suppose you know who he is.” Wardle looked at her attentively and Robin let a long sigh out.

“Of course I know who he is. He killed Cormoran's mum seventeen years ago.”

“Or so he says.”

“I'm sure he's right, we're talking about the brightest private detective of London, who caught people not the police or the army could,” Robin insisted loyaly. “Whittaker deserves being beaten-up. I met him briefly, back when the Shacklewell Ripper, he was one of our suspects. Cormoran never really thought it was his style, but I wanted to check just in case, so I found him, and he was abusing a girl. Beat her up, she looked horrible... I tried to help her, both of us did, but she trusted him like Leda had. God knows the shit he did to her, he's a horrible man. He was high, very into drugs, Cormoran told me, I bet he owed someone money and that's why he's injured.”

Wardle nodded and sighed.

“I need to investigate, though. Who beat him up is dangerous then, and near your flat, I can put police protection if you'd feel safer.”

“No need, it's alright. I don't know if perhaps Whittaker was coming after me,” said Robin, offering tea with a gesture and filling his cup, sitting next to him. “He saw me with his girlfriend that time. He knows I work with Cormoran, he's threatened to kill him a bunch of times, so perhaps... perhaps he thought it would hurt more to kill me. In any case, if he's down, I'm safe. He was the boss of his gang, the others won't move without him.” Wardle nodded.

“Alright then. I should go see Strike, perhaps he's taken revenge on his mother, wasn't he a boxer?” Wardle remembered, getting up. Robin looked indignant. “Oh, I don't want it to be him, but he's got all the reason, Robin.”

“Well he's got a firm alibi though,” replied Robin. “Come.” Robin guided him to her bedroom and opened the room just enough for the snores, that sounded pretty real to Robin, who knew them well, to come out. “He's still asleep. He knows nothing yet.” She whispered. Wardle raised an eyebrow and then nodded. As they went back to the living room, Robin blushed furiously as she explained. “We have been dating for a couple months, since the explosion... he's not even fit to beat anyone up at the moment.”

“Woah,” Wardle drank his tea. “I see. Congrats.”

“Thanks,” Robin cupped the tea between her hands. “Look, Eric, when this leaks to the press everyone's going to think he did it, and our business could resent and then they'll harass him. And you don't know how tough it's been for him, you can ask anyone, since the explosion in October. He was a month in bed rest, and you know how he is, he would never rest even for his leg... but he wouldn't even resist this time, so bad he was. His hands are still bandaged, bruised and burnt. With the ribs he couldn't breathe without being in the worst pain, and his back hurt, he had bruises all over, his leg hurt, and he's still suffering the effects from the mild-concussion, had headaches and dizziness for weeks. And I think it resurfaced PTSD stuff with the IED of Afghanistan, he's been startling easily, sleeping poorly...” Robin wasn't even lying, if she was honest with herself. She knew, from Strike's advice, that even when lying you had to stick as much as you could to the truth, and now Wardle looked truthfully worried.

“Shit, but I thought he was better, back to work, right?”

“Oh, he went back to _office_ work. Nothing outside yet. He can't stand up for longer than five minutes without his back hurting, and he still gets plenty of headaches and dizziness... the doctor said it's not just the fact that a beam fell on him, apparently the force of IEDs can cause brain damage absolutely invisible until... well... until they see in the morgue. Happens with many soldiers, and Cormoran's had two. It wouldn't be odd if his brain had been damaged permanently, somewhat,” said Robin with honest worry, looking so troubled Wardle reached to squeeze her hand. “Thanks. I'm taking care of him, I barely leave him alone myself. We came here last night, my flatmate's out with his boyfriend for the weekend so it was date night, and we fell asleep on the sofa, then woke up to go back to bed, and it was still late at night. I woke him up briefly when I woke up so he'd know I wasn't home, I need to keep active and do sports when he's safe and okay, it's important for me to keep active. Called you when I came back, you're the only one I've told.”

“Why didn't you go to see what was up? You have a fame of being daring.”

“For many reasons,” replied Robin. “I promised Cormoran not to get in stupid danger, I knew I was probably going to be outnumbered, because it sounded... I didn't hear voices, but the noise of punching and falling... it sounded to me like a lot of people, at least three. I had no weapons, and if something happened to me, what if Cormoran had woken up to go to the bathroom, gotten dizzy and knocked his head on the shower? Besides, first step with emergencies is always 999, that's how I was educated. My phone was here, so I came here.”

“So you didn't see anything?”

“No. I was just passing by. I told you everything I know. When Cormoran feels better, I'll ask him if he knows of any other enemies of Whittaker. Cormoran's had people keeping an eye on him to make sure he wouldn't touch Cormoran's little nephews.”

“Alright. Well, I have work to do. Send my best regards to him, take care.”

“Thanks...” Robin didn't let a sigh of relief go until she had locked the door behind Wardle and closed her bedroom door behind her.

  
  


 


	15. How to do things right

In the darkness, Robin slid behind Strike in bed, as his ribs were now healed, allowing for him to lie on his side, and put his arms around him. His snores stopped. “Wardle's gulped it. Are you alright?”

Strike turned around to face her in the dark. He felt shaken-up still, and couldn't believe Robin had lied to Wardle to cover him.

“I heard it all from here. I've been thinking,” Strike murmured. His voice sounded troubled and Robin reached to caress his face, worried. “I don't remember what I did, Robin. But to cause so much damage, I must've tried to kill him. Robin, you can't lie to the police for me, I'm sure some shop's cameras must've caught me, when they find out they will arrest you.”

“We will tell Wardle the truth, eventually, but I had to win us some time to find out exactly what happened. What's the last you remember?” they spoke in hurried whispers.

“I left the house to buy you breakfast,” Strike recalled. “I wanted to cook something nice. I was on my way back, when I saw Whittaker... and then there's a blank... and suddenly I'm looking at him, and my hands are full of bruises and hurting and he looks dead beneath me. I then felt a huge panic, like I was being followed, and I came here as fast as I could.”

“What about what you said to me? What was that about?”

“What? When?”

Strike didn't remember what he had told her upon arriving home. He only remembered arriving, being rushed into the shower and to bed... in his memory, he saw lips moving, but couldn't hear a sound. Robin told him everything.

“I said I was a sergeant? That it was my job, that I eradicated the threat?” Strike frowned. “What? It makes no sense.”

“That's why I lied to Wardle, sweetie. We need to figure out what's going on with you before anything else. For all we know, you could have brain damage, you suffered two explosions,” said Robin. “I've read about this, and in psychology they talked about the effects of trauma. PTSD can cause hallucinations, you could have hallucinated that Whittaker was going to hurt you, perhaps he really did, or you could've heard voices that seemed like your army bosses and made you believe what you told me.”

“Oh, Jesus...” Strike was getting a headache and closed his eyes.

“So you hit him, and once it was done, you snapped out of it, and couldn't remember what had just happened. I've read a lot about that.”

“You did a lot in one year.”

“Cormoran, I've been studying psychology my whole life, out of uni, I'm passionate about the subject,” Robin rolled eyes and Strike smiled small.

“So you think that's what might've happened? It happens, it's normal?”

“Yes. Could also be due to brain damage. There's another explanation as well; very often, when someone does something horrible, something that goes so much against their ethics that they cannot deal with it, their minds erase it. There are records of serial killers who didn't remember what they did. You must've not snapped out of it fully, so you don't remember clearly anything until after the shower... which makes sense. The shower would've calmed your system down and helped think more clearly, relieve any possible brain swelling you could be having, fully snap you out of it. Whatever it is, it's _something_ , and we need to tell Wardle, and also get you a proper doctor to investigate it.”

“Robin, come on...”

“You almost killed a man, Cormoran. Thankfully it was just Whittaker, but what if next time you're with Jack, alone, something like this happens, and you hurt him? If there's something wrong with you, treatment cannot wait. And, you can plead brain illness and don't be prosecuted for the attack.”

Strike sighed, supporting his forehead on Robin's. He knew he wasn't alright. He didn't feel alright, and the idea of not being in control of his brain's actions was deeply disturbing and scary. He couldn't bear it. Robin kissed his forehead and wrapped an arm around him.

“It's going to be okay. I promise.”

Once they both felt a bit more comforted, they got dressed, lifted up the blinds, and Strike reassured Robin he was feeling alright now. They wrote official, honest statements, of what each had seen and done, signed them, and Robin kept them meticulously folded them into her chest pocket. Strike wrote down a list of things to be sorted out if anything happened; who to call, where was his money, office stuff, anything Robin would need to know, and also gave it to her. Then, Robin drove Strike to the hospital to see a neurosurgeon, a specialist who had worked with soldiers victims of explosions, and who had treated Strike, to get an emergency check-up. Strike told him what had happened, substituting 'alley' for 'my girlfriend's flat' and substituting 'attacking a man' for 'being somewhere without remembering how he got there'. While Strike went through hours of tests, Robin requested an emergency meeting with Wardle in the office in Denmark Street. She'd normally wait until they had test results, but she didn't want him to find out they lie from anyone but them, and she was sure if Strike's brain was alright (as much as those tests could show) then the problem was PTSD, so in any case, there was a logical explanation exempting Strike.

Once in the office, Robin handed him and Vanessa, who was with him, hers and Strike's declarations on paper, and once they finished reading, she looked at them apologetic. In hers, she had included how truthful Strike's symptoms and issues were, exactly as she had told Wardle before.

“I'm so sorry I lied, I just knew if I told you the truth you'd have to arrest him, and that'd be very dangerous for his health. I know something's wrong with him, I know, and jail would throw him completely off balance. I meant to tell you the truth, but I needed time to make sure he was taken care off properly, I wasn't lying about my concerns with him,” Robin assured. Vanessa sighed and reached a hand to hold hers, squeezing. They were friends, after all.

“Where is he now?” asked Vanessa.

“At the hospital, with the neurosurgeon. Doctor also thinks there may be something wrong, they're checking it out. I think he attacked Whittaker because he heard voices telling him to do so,” Robin explained.

“I thought that was schizophrenia,” said Wardle, frowning.

“Yes, but there are many things that cause hallucination. Brain trauma and PTSD, for example, and he's got both,” said Robin. “I'm sure he did what he did on a moment of paranoia provoked by that. It happens. People's committed murder for that before.”

“Had he done any drugs?” Wardle asked.

“Eric!” Robin and Vanessa hissed at once.

“I have to ask!” Wardle retorted. “His mum was a druggie, is the first the bosses are going to ask.”

“He was sober,” Robin assured. “He's not been drinking more than a beer or two a day because he says it worsens his concussion symptoms, and besides, he wouldn't be able to take the painkillers, and he's no longer smoking, since it was so hard and painful to breathe he didn't want to worsen it. And he smoked Benson & Hedges, not weed or something.”

“Alright,” Wardle nodded for himself, making a plan. “I'll tell the mates not to check the cameras until I've finished pursuing a ghost line of investigation. That should give enough time for Strike to have the full evaluation, and then, we'll go with it to the big bosses, they won't be able to prosecute him. You go be with him, we'll handle things.”

“Thank you!” Robin grabbed his face and kissed his cheek on enthusiasm. “I knew you are a friend!”

“I'm also not stupid,” said Wardle. “If Strike was in prison, the Shacklewell Ripper would've killed many other girls. He's better out and free to do his job as soon as he recovers.”

Robin went back to the hospital and it turned out Strike had post-concussion syndrome, which was a case of symptoms including dizziness, headaches, insomnia and others and could last months.

“There have been patients who experimented hallucinations,” added the doctor. “Your brain's still a bit swollen, it looks like it's recovering, but it's a slow process. Don't extenuate your brain with detecting, reading or studying much, and it'll feel better. I'm going to have you be examined by my psychiatrist colleague so we can give you some meds for the hallucinations.”

The psychiatrist had then diagnosed severe PTSD, and once again, hallucinations were very likely to occur until he was more recovered, so therapy sessions were schedules and medication given. In the end, it was lunch time, and they were tired and exhausted. They had lunch at a pub and then went to meet with Wardle once again.

“So you're receiving treatment?” Wardle was asking.

“Yes,” Strike nodded tiredly. “I've been told to be on sick leave until the New Year, so I'm not allowed to work. Should be enough to be completely back on track then.”

“And it was hallucinations? It's why you fought Whittaker?”

“They think I was having hallucinations, but Whittaker could've attacked me first though,” said Strike. “Anyhow, the neurosurgeon and psychiatrist both wrote reports, once I came clean and told them the actual issue, and they explain that my conduct is perfectly justified by my brain's state and that continuing to prosecute me could worsen my situation, creating paranoia and other shit, so, tell me who I have to give this to so I'm left alone, because I'm bloody exhausted.”

“Sir Randolph Whittaker is pressuring to catch whoever did this, he won't be happy,” reflected Wardle. “I'm going to call the Crown Prosecutor for an emergency meeting including your docs as soon as possible, and it will be the CP who has to decide whether or not to present charges and prosecute you. For now, go home and don't leave the city.”

“You think the CP will let him go?” asked Robin, worried, her hand sliding into Strike's. Wardle shrugged and let a long sigh out.

“I think the neurosurgeon and therapist could be very convincing. At the end, there's no witness or proof. All we have is Strike's testimony, and confessing is always positive points. He has no criminal record and is a very valued figure for public safety, aside from a veteran, those are things to be considered, and no one can really swear he went and cold-bloodily attacked someone for revenge in full consciousness of his actions, so I think the chances are good. Besides, normal adulterers never get much condemn either, law is soft with these things for now. You go home and rest, take the meds, wear your best suit tomorrow and just in case, bring your lawyer if you have one.”

“I do,” Strike shivered. “Ilsa's going to flip.”

Once home, Strike could feel an incoming headache, so he went to bed. He felt emotionally and mentally exhausted, and still shaken-up thinking of the very real possibility of losing his mind. Robin was facing similar concerns about him, so she distracted herself working while he slept, and once they both felt fresh and better, they got in the car to visit Nick and Ilsa for dinner. As they were in the Land Rover, Strike reached a hand to squeeze Robin's thigh.

“Thank you,” said Strike with a small smile. “You're an extraordinary woman. You lied to the police for me, you protected me, you took the best care of me when I was losing my shit, and you stay even when my brain's going berserk. I don't know what I'd do without you.” Robin stopped at a red light and beamed at him, leaning to kiss him.

“Get used, because I'm not going anywhere. We're a pack, I'll go wherever you will go.” Strike kissed her as well.

“I'm very lucky, regardless of the circumstances.”

Ilsa and Nick did flip, but without going hysterical like Lucy could have done. They stayed in silence assimilating the news for a moment, consternated for him and thankful that Abigail was already in bed. The kid was going to school, so she had to wake up early and go to sleep early, and in the weekends they maintained it so she got used to it and it wasn't so hard on Monday. Eventually, Ilsa let a breath out and reached a hand to caress the back of Strike's as it was on the table.

“How are you taking it?” Ilsa asked softly. Strike shrugged.

“I've always had my brain to be the one thing I could always count on, and now...” Strike sighed. “But I don't want anyone to know, much less Lucy. I only told you because I need you for that meeting, but... I don't want anyone to look at me as if I'm crazy. I'm having treatment and plus, the doctor said it was temporally, that once everything was better they felt confident I could drop the meds. I'm not dangerous.”

“Oggy, we're not scared you're going to hurt us, like you said, you're having treatment,” said Nick, a calming voice. “And of course we won't go around telling, you know it. We just want to make sure you can keep your spirits high even if your mind tricked you to almost kill Whittaker.”

“I think it had it so easy to trick me because it's something I've wanted to do,” said Strike. “I don't know how many times have I dreamed of strangling him or something. Robin says I believed to still be a Sergeant and having received orders to exterminate the enemy, so... I guess I believed whatever I was hearing because I wanted to. I don't think I put the slightest of effort into trying to figure out what was happening or question myself or anything...”

Robin put an arm around Strike's shoulders and Strike smiled appreciatively at her. Nick looked worried at Ilsa.

“He won't go to prison, right?”

“No,” replied Ilsa. “A fine at most, but luckily not even that.”

Strike and Robin went to bed early that night and Robin read Strike to sleep, stroking his hair and calming his spirits down. She was a little nervous as well, but Ilsa had managed to calm them both down and now she felt confident it'll all go alright. It took a couple days before a meeting was scheduled, one morning and not at Scotland Yard but at London Tribunals. Strike got into his best suit, and along with Robin and Ilsa, they drove to the meeting, and were guided to a large meeting's room with one large oval table around which were blue chairs. The room was already filled with some people, like Wardle and Vanessa, but also an stranger, and, to his surprise, Major Dennis Clapham, who had been Strike's superior for most of his SIB years. He was in uniform, with his red-cap, and Strike internally lamented he had been dragged here.

“Major Clapham!” escaped Strike's lips.

“General Strike!” Dennis Clapham was clearly happy to see him. A big blonde man with red cheeks and dark eyes, he stood up in all his size and shook Strike's hand with a sincere grin. “I'm so happy to see you. Your name is always around the offices, you're one of the SIB's most famous ex-members, everyone is so proud of you, you should see...”

“Thank you, Sir. I'm sorry they've asked you to come...”

“Nonsense! We don't leave one of our own alone, even if you're retired. When I heard what was happening, I had to come. Allow me to introduce you, this is Crown Prosecutor Laura Clay, Mrs Clay, this is Mr Strike here.”

“Hi,” Strike shook Mrs. Clay's hand. She was black, with deep dark eyes that drilled into Strike's and a small, polite smile. “This is my lawyer, Ilsa Herbert, and my partner, Detective Robin Ellacott, who was witness of part of the... events...”

Introductions were made, hands shook, glasses of water served, and everyone sat around the table. Strike thanked heavens Robin was right next to him, because he was getting nervous.

“Alright, Mr Strike,” started CP Clay, looking through folders of documents. “This is an unusual proceeding, so we've pretty much improvised. DI Wardle informed me of everything, and after a talk with him we decided the best way of knowing how to proceed was evaluating you properly to decide if you're someone who should be prosecuted and put in a trial, being conscious of the delicate health circumstances that are to be had in account before submitting a potentially innocent man through such stressful proceedings. With that in mind, I want you to know that despite the fact that I'm pressured by the Whittakers to imprison the responsible of Mr Whittaker's attack, my main job is to seek justice and I am not your enemy. I value the incredible contributions you've made for your country, but in this country everyone is equal to the law, and we must all pay if we break the law. So, I've called all this people to make sure I have all the facts and I don't judge things lightly.”

“I appreciate it,” Strike murmured. CP Clay nodded, and looked at the files again.

“DI Wardle has already explained me everything that's happened, and I've read yours and Ms Ellacott's testimonies thoroughly, so we won't go over that again. I've also spoken thoroughly with the professionals that have taken care of your health, gone over all the test results and evaluations you've received, and I understand your brain is in poor shape, are you feeling alright today to do this?”

“Yes, ma'am. I've been perfectly fine these couple days with the right medication,” replied Strike.

“The type of offence you might've committed is level one assault, for which usually the sentence goes between community service and a few months of prison. Of course, given your record of saving lives, the good opinion everyone has of you, the fact that you confessed, and the fact that the attack wasn't aggravated by race or religion, and that you don't have any records, the judge would just want something that gave a lesson, but wasn't too bad, so I'd say a few months of community service,” explained the CP Clay. She sounded calm and collected, but also with an undertone of a pissed-off mother speaking with her child. “Then again, we have no proof that you truly did this, aside from your confession, Ms Ellacott's account, and some camera footage that shows you shopping in the are. Nothing else. And Mr. Whittaker seems to be very badly, so I highly doubt he'll ever be able to point a finger at you. You could've gotten out of this and no one wouldn't have known.”

“I don't like living a lie, ma'am. I know I crossed the line and did something awful, I've never allowed myself to go after him because I didn't want to be that kind of a person, so I can guarantee you I don't feel proud of what I've done. I had to confess. It was the only way.” CP Clay looked happy to hear but then frowned a little.

“Excuse me, you know Mr Whittaker?” Strike and Ilsa exchanged a look, and Ilsa proceeded.

“Jeff Whittaker's my client's step-father through his marriage to Leda Strike twenty years ago. Together they have a twenty-year-old son who has no contact with his step-siblings nor Leda's family, since Leda appeared dead seventeen years ago and it was ruled as suicide. Leda's family had a rough relationship with Whittaker, and they've always believed he killed her—,”

“And she wasn't the only one he kill—,” Strike went to interrupt, but Ilsa proceeded as nothing.

“But police couldn't prove it so he was let free.” Ilsa finished.

“Oh,” CP Clay looked surprised, and nodded slowly. “The Whittakers didn't mention.”

“I'm surprised,” said Strike. “Look, that son of a bitch and my family have a shit relationship because when he started banging my mum I was almost seventeen, with a two years younger sister, living in a squat with barely no income, we lived in poverty and my mum worked her arse off to try to maintain us because our different fathers wouldn't give her much money, Whittaker had all the fun harassing my sister, who wasn't fifteen yet, until she was out of our house and running to our family in Cornwall in less than a month. He liked to pretend he was going to fuckin' rape her, you know? Had her bloody scared. And he shouted at mum, threatened with cutting my neck all my bloody life there. So yes, we have a shitty relationship, and he killed my mum, but I wouldn't hurt him. Mum taught me better than to be a violent twat like him.”

“I see,” CP Clay nodded slowly. “Well this changes things then. You had a motive.”

“No. If I had wanted, Mrs Clay, I would've killed Jeff Whittaker with my own bare hands the minute the police let him free. And I've had plenty of chances. I was a SIB, I had a charged gun in my pocket and ability to find him wherever, I could've easily put a bullet in his brain and no one would've ever found out,” Strike couldn't help his bruised hands clenching, his eyes to get bright with rage, as he forgot he was supposed to stay calm and collected. Ilsa put a hand on his thigh under the table and Robin took one of his hands between her own under the table, stroking it with her thumb. “But I didn't,” Strike breathed out, “because I'm a decent man, you know? I didn't, even when I feared to come home and see my little sister or my mum raped and dead, I didn't, even when we were denied restraining orders, I didn't, even when my sister had little boys and I worried about their safety, and I didn't, when he became a suspect of the Shacklewell Ripper and it was put in my knowledge that he was abusing other women. This attack wouldn't have happened at all, had I been healthy.”

“Alright,” CP Clay nodded again. “I have Mr Whittaker's criminal record, your mum appears as Mrs Whittaker, so I never noticed. Sorry for that.”

“Don't call her Mrs Whittaker. Leda Strike. She chose the name herself,” Strike muttered.

“Of course. So I see you've done boxing,” CP Clay saw, reading her notes. “Won very often in the army. Decorated, an outstanding career in the army and later as a detective... quite impressive. What do you say, Major Clapham?”

“I say,” the Major sat straight, puffing his chest with pride. “That Mr Strike is one of the best man I've ever had the pleasure to boss around, and I believe if this man is, to the eyes of the law, so questionable, and to Mr Strike, a murderer and a very seriously dangerous man, it would be Mr Strike's duty to assure he was off the streets, but I also know him well enough to know he wouldn't do it this way, just like he hasn't in the past. I believe they met, perhaps Whittaker went looking for a fight, perhaps they argued, no one can be sure. And I believe Mr Strike's current health issues made him lose his always excellent capacity of keeping himself in check. I've never known him to be a man to lose control. It's just my humble opinion, CP Clay, but I've known the man for a good portion of his life, I took him in at twenty-one and tamed him to be the soldier I knew he had the potential to be, I'm sure this is just an unfortunate accident.”

“Well I hear you, and considering all these reports and facts and testimonies... I don't want to prosecute you, Mr Strike. I'd be happy going to the Whittakers and telling them the investigation has been archived due to lack of proof, and I think it's the best that can be done. You going through an extenuating judicial process only to end up doing community service, when you've already served your country for years, would do nothing for Mr Whittaker, and would certainly only be bad for your health, I wouldn't want to contribute into irreparable brain damage. So there won't be charges presented against you, for this time, and we will keep things under wraps so journos never know.” Strike sighed in relief. “Now, I suggest you take care of yourself and keep a clean record. I doubt you can get out of things so easily twice.”

“Thanks, ma'am.”

  
  


 


	16. Be your light

When Christmas approached, only a few days later and with Whittaker still in coma, Robin and Strike decided that, since the agency was doing excellently, they could afford a week outside home and go upwards to Masham, which would do Strike's health well. They had considered St. Mawes, given that it'd be Robin's first trip home since her divorce and probably not so easy, but Cornwall was full of people who knew Strike, of memories for him, and people who would harass him with questions, happy to see him and worried about his health, so in the end it could not be so relaxing. In Masham, he'd stay with Robin at her family home. Martin had recently, finally, moved out, Jonathan was living home, figuring his life now that he had graduated and working as a paramedic, and Stephen and Jenny had just had a daughter, Rose, whom Robin was dying to meet.

As Robin drove up north, humming songs, cheerful because she was bringing the best boyfriend she could ask for home and finally going to introduce him as her boyfriend, her eyes moved to the sleeping figure to her left every now and then. Strike slept soundly, his face looked relaxed, and he snored into the car, his arms crossed over his chest and his ear against Robin's scarf, that was a bundle between him and the window acting as a pillow. Robin had developed more intense feelings for him as the weeks passed, nothing that wasn't there before, but now they were more intense, stronger. She felt more protective, more affective, more loving, more in awe and absolute impressed with him, and luckier than in the past few months. She didn't recall being so happy in years, being with someone who grew her, who pushed forward, who didn't bring her down.

It had been tough, the first months of their relationship, with him feeling so unwell, but it had been a surprise for Robin to discover that despite his unwellness, he didn't act, like Matthew had, in hurtful ways towards her. He did his best not to be a burden, and he was encouraging and grateful, as helpful as he could, so she hadn't feel it had been specially tough on her for any other reason than for how worried she had been. Strike had made it easy to care for him. Now, after days of treatment, he was sleeping more, looking better, feeling stronger, almost never in pain, with almost no panic attacks and not so dizzy anymore, and they had been able to celebrate a few dates.

Robin parked the car on the grass by the road before entering Masham. She was driving Strike's BMW, because it was more comfortable, so he could rest on the way there better than in the battered Land Rover. She wanted to wake Strike up affectionately, so she had parked, turned on her seat, and stroke his thick dark curls. They were so soft, and she had dreamed with caressing them so much, it felt surreal that now she could do it freely.

“Cormoran, sweetness, wake up,” she said softly, giving him little pecks on the lips. She felt him smile against her lips before she saw his eyes open, and she smiled back at him. “We're almost there. Right by Masham's entrance.”

“Great,” Strike cracked his neck and stretched, moving to cup Robin's face in his hands and kiss her sweetly. “Have I said how nice that jumper looks on you?” Strike added looking at her softly. “Brings out your stunning eyes.”

“Thank you,” Robin chuckled, igniting the car again and moved out of the snowy grass field and back into the road. “You're such a flatterer.”

“I always thought these things, I just didn't feel it was okay to tell,” Strike shrugged. “Almost got a stroke the first time I saw you with the bloody green dress.” Robin sniggered.

“Believe me, me too.”

Strike twisted to look at the bag of Christmas presents on the back-seat.

“You think your dad will like the bottle of Scotch I got him?”

“He loves Scotch, and that's a good brand, of course he'll like it. Imagine if you got a pack of Doom Bar.” Strike chortled and Robin smiled wider.

“Ready for the divorce interrogations?” asked Strike as Robin drove into Masham, through streets familiar to them both.

“Yeah, well... hopefully it won't be too bad. My family warmed them up.”

“How long do you want me to say we've been dating?”

“A couple months.” Strike was surprised.

“You wanna say the truth? What about them thinking you cheated?”

“I've thought things through... look, I'm so happy now, I don't want to lie. Besides... if anyone has anything to recriminate me, I have no problem explaining all about Matthew's extracurricular activities.”

“Well said,” Strike kissed her cheek as they approached the Ellacott household. “I'm proud of you.”

As expected, they were received by Robin's parents, who showered their daughter in affection and showed concern for Strike, and Jonathan, the youngest of Robin's siblings, to whom he had barely spoken. He was happy to find Stephen and Jenny, with whom he had gotten on well, were in the sitting room with _Rowntree_ , the family dog, and a little bundle sleeping in a bassinet, that was baby Rose.

“Beautiful, isn't she?” Stephen beamed as Robin leaned to kiss her niece and stroke her cheeks with one cheek.

“Absolutely perfect,” Robin agreed, beaming as well. “So cute, your aunty is going to spoil you so badly...” Strike stood, looking adoringly at Robin. Rose was just a little alien to him, but Robin was bloody adorable.

Over a cosy dinner, Robin asked about Martin, and they learned he was in Harrogate, working as a guitarist for a small band.

“He says he earns enough to make a humble living,” commented Linda as they ate, with a tone that indicated that she didn't trust her son's words much, and was sceptic.

“Wasn't he always good with the guitar?” chimed in Jenny, who everyone in the family adored, as Stephen refilled the glass.

“Oh, yeah,” Michael nodded to his daughter-in-law. “Magic fingers.” Strike of course saw the dirty meaning of the word and almost chocked on his drink and Robin, who had also seen it, muffled a smile and patted his back softly.

“So,” Strike said when he recovered, with watery eyes. “Michael, I never asked what's your job.”

“Oh, well,” Michael smiled. “I'm a librarian. Before I was a teacher, but got worn-out. Now, I like spending time in the library, just relaxedly reading. I imagine it must sound very boring for you.” He added with a chuckle.

“Not at all!” Strike argued. “No, it's... well, must be nice. Relaxed, as you said. And you have the time I always lack to do some reading. I've been trying to finish a couple novels for like, four months or more. And what'd you do, Linda?” he added then over his plate.

“I used to teach as well, in kindergarten. Then I got my own children and retired, you see? I wanted to see them grow-up,” Linda explained.

“Robin told me you did an Open-University course in Literature a few years back,” Strike commented. Linda seemed pleased, and her lips curved into a soft smile.

“It was very interesting. Always enjoyed literature indeed... What did you study, dear?”

“Ah,” Robin looked interested at Strike, since she'd never known herself. “Ancient History.” Her eyes widened.

“Really?” she asked. Strike shrugged.

“Why such tone of surprise?”

“Well, action-lover you, studying Ancient History...”

“You don't know how cool it was,” said Strike, amused. “All the battles between Greeks and Romans, mythology, legends... I thoroughly enjoyed it.” Robin smiled softly, feeling a pang of further affection towards him. Something about his career choice was adorable to Robin's eyes.

Robin was nervous about telling her family she and Strike were dating, so they decided to wait until dessert. She feared her family would be so protective of her at this point, they'd worry she was rushing into another relationship too soon. But with Linda's chocolate cake in front of them, which quickly improved everyone's mood, she felt brave to speak-up.

“There's something Cormoran and I wanted to tell you,” Robin started, timidly looking at Strike, who licked the chocolate off his lips in a way that made her uncomfortable in her seat, looking at her, and nodded, putting a hand on her thigh. “We're dating.”

Jenny grinned and congratulated them, Stephen looked surprised, but smiled and nodded looking towards Strike, Jon snorted a laugh, Michael's eyebrows raised a lot to then form a small frown, and Linda looked serious at them, the same way she'd look at complex literature chapters as she concentrated deeply on all the action.

“Uh, Robin, sweetheart, not that we're not thrilled, Cormoran, we know you're a wonderful man and we trust you,” Michael started a bit nervously.

“Right, but darling, are you sure you're ready? Don't you think it's a bit soon? You know... isn't it like... a rebound?” Linda suggested. Strike decided he wasn't to intervene and leaned back, looking serious at Robin. He, too, cared to know.

“Mum, I agree if I had been in love with Matthew when we broke-up, if I had had a wonderful albeit short marriage, it would feel too soon and I would've rather be alone, most likely,” said Robin softly. “I mean, we've been dating two months – in October it would've definitely been super soon.”

“Two months?” Stephen looked shocked. “But Rob, what are you saying with the ifs? Aren't you heartbroken?”

“Oh, I am,” Robin conceded. “But not because I loved him. I don't love Matthew and I didn't love him four months ago when I left him. It just hurts that my husband lied to me so much, so often, committed adultery frequently since eight years ago, and I didn't leave him before. It hurts my ego, my pride, my trust in him and a thousand other things, obviously. And he was manipulative, egocentric, unsupportive, selfish... all of that hurts. But I honestly haven't loved him for so long, and I see now, that, as much as I hate to admit Matthew was partially right, I was attracted to Cormoran since a long time ago.” Strike raised his eyebrows in surprise and Robin smiled small at him before she looked at her family again, leaning forward. “I know I did things very, very badly, and I'm so sorry. I'm even more sorry that my failures and mistakes cost you so much money, but Matthew was never a good idea.” Robin said looking ashamed at her parents.

“Nonsense, darling, no need to be sorry to us. As parents, we have a duty to let you go and do whatever you feel like, even if it is a mistake, even if it costs a lot of money... is money well-invested if you learn from it,” said Michael looking at his only daughter through his bespectacled eyes.

“Your dad's right. Besides, Robin, you had all the right in the world to try and see. You did a very adult thing, forgiving and giving things a chance and trying hard... and it's not your fault it didn't work. Matthew deserves all the crap that comes his way, he wasn't good enough for you.” Linda added.

“He was a royal wanker, I doubt anyone's upset he's no longer in the family,” Jon added, and Stephen nodded in agreement.

“Thanks,” Robin smiled a little. “I just... I never told anyone, but I guess it's time truth comes out... I was going to break-up with Matthew, back in Uni.” Her family and Strike looked at her attentively, and she fidgeted with her napkin. “I was sick of his lack of interest in my things and his jealousy, and we rowed often and... I thought I no longer loved him, if I had even loved him by then, being so young... but then, the... the rape,” she said it almost as spitting. “Happened. And Matthew felt safe, so I stayed. Just because I was struggling and vulnerable and he, I thought, was being nice. It was the only reason. If it hadn't happened... I would've broken-up, the minute we were home on holiday. And I think, when I moved to London, I was ready to settle with a safe life, with my high school sweetheart, where nothing would harm me, even if it was nothing like I always envisioned it, even if it was boring and uninteresting. And I had always, always wanted to do something police-related. It's why I studied psychology. When I was nineteen, I wanted to be a forensic psychology.” Her family was looking less shocked and more saddened, hearing her daughter's real struggles, hidden for years. Robin, who had felt shy at first, now felt a huge relief at letting things out, and found herself unable to stop herself until it was all out in the open. Strike noticed, for the first time, that hadn't Robin come to him, she would've settled down with Lucy's life, reacting to trauma in the same way Lucy had.

>> “At first, when I started feeling something about a year ago or so, I thought,” Robin continued, Strike permanently astonished, “that what I felt for Cormoran was just being grateful. I didn't notice, until a few months ago, that I actually wanted him. That I wasn't just grateful or happy or admiring him, that my affection for him rooted deep. The day I came into his office changed my life forever. I know I must've seemed unrecognizable, but actually, I was being and doing what had always been my biggest dream, discovering who I was, even if it baffled and astounded everyone, finding out that I was braver and more daring, smarter and more skilled than I ever thought, and enjoying every single minute of it. With Cormoran, I could discover myself and embrace it. And of course everyone, even Matthew, felt weirded-out and like who the hell was I after all, I get it... but I love my job. I did from the first day. And Cormoran's given me the training and lessons and experience I needed me, and he keeps being the best professor,” she reached a hand back to squeeze his on his knee, and left it there, even as she was looking down, afraid to see her family's faces. “And this is what I want. I know it. I never belonged to Matthew. I belong where I am, I just lost my way... and Cormoran brought me back to it. So I'm ready to be with – with you,” she turned to look at Strike, who smiled softly at her and leaned forward to kiss her forehead. She smiled, and dared to look at her family, who looked happy and soft. “It's so stupid actually. They always say being single is the best you can do to figure yourself out and whatnot, and being independent and all... and I guess that's true, for most people. But for me, being with Cormoran...” she smiled at him again, getting emotional. “He pushes me forward and encourages me to figure myself out and see who I am. He never reveals case information too soon, he simply insists that I keep looking, thinking... because he knows I can figure it out, because he trusts me. With Cormoran, I have the best of single life; independence, doing the hell I want whenever I want without having to give explanations to anyone, living on my own with Louis, doing my own life my way without people thinking they know better than me. But I also have the best of having someone. A cuddle, and dates, and working alongside my favourite man, who doesn't bring me down to make himself look superior, who admires me and sees so much in me, and who has the life experience to advice me and push me to whatever I want to do. Someone that's not going to insinuate I'm not something enough to do a task... but who's going to rather say, well, figure it out, learn it and do it. So yeah. I'm exactly where I want to be and where I belong. Honest.”

After a good amount of congratulating, encouraging, emotional confessions and giving Strike not the third but the eight degree about what'd happen to him if he hurt Robin, the new couple went on a stroll out on the snow, being romantic. Strike had an arm around Robin's shoulders and she was snuggled against the side of him as they walked around Masham, pretty with Christmas lights, Santa Clauses hanging from windows, and some Christmas carols heard here and there, and they walked without a hurry and without a direction. Strike felt so happy he couldn't stop smiling.

“What you said in there,” Strike murmured looking down at the flames falling from a beanie. “Was beautiful. I love to have improved your life so much... and it's not even half as much as you've improved mine. You're my lucky star, Robin.” She grinned looking up at him, his curls full of little white dots of snow.

“Then I hope I can always be your light,” Robin put her arms around his neck, and kissed him.

The kiss became passionate very soon, and they were making out on the street, in the middle of snow, without caring that Matthew was, a few meters away, looking at them, full of rage.

 


	17. Couples who ride together...

**Chapter 17:**

Strike could get used to this; waking up, the day before Christmas, with an arm squashed under Robin, his face buried between her shoulder blades, and her cheek full lines from the wrinkles of Robin's pyjama shirt. Being warm, with cotton, soft pyjamas, and a duvet big enough to cover them both just fine, and Rowntree snoring at the feet of their bed. Strike stretched before curling to wrap Robin with his body and, with a deep breathe, inhale his lavender scent. Kissing the back of her neck, Strike retrieved his sore arm and slid out of bed, putting his leg on and getting dressed. He got up, tucked Robin in better, kissed her forehead, and smiled as her lips curved a little, and she snuggled better, snoring softly. Strike ignored the horses staring at him from the walls as he moved outside the room, throwing a jumper on, and walked quietly through the still mostly silent house to the bathroom, washing his face and trying to rearrange his hair before proceeding downstairs, following a murmur of conversation.

Linda was sitting at the table chatting with her youngest child, Jon, while they drank tea and Michael prepared breakfast. They were all in pyjama, with dishevelled hairs and housecoats to shield from the cold.

“Good morning, Cormoran, slept good?” asked Linda looking warmly at him.

“Excellent,” said Strike, sitting down and thanking Michael as he served him tea and breakfast. “I didn't want to wake Robin up, she looked so happy.”

Robin would come downstairs ten minutes later, with one of Strike's jumpers thrown over her pyjama, looking enormous on her but cosy, and dishevelled hair. She cheerfully bid everyone good morning and gave Strike a peck on the lips before going to her seat. After breakfast, Robin insisted to show Strike her uncle's farm, so he was introduced to that side of the family and cousin Katie, Robin's favourite, who had a one year old daughter, Nora, born just days after Robin's wedding.

Strike liked all of Robin's relatives. Katie was painfully honest, funny and sarcastic, and Robin's uncle clearly held a lot of love for his niece, letting Robin move around as if she was at home, so Robin could show Strike all the horses, as the couple joked about whether a horse was truly white or it meant grey, and bay was actually brown.

“And this is famous Clydesdale,” Robin added with a grin at the stable, stroking the face of the big old Clydesdale, an enormous horse with wide torso and a thick mane of hair covering his body.

“Hello bud,” Strike patted him clumsily. “Biggie. Aren't they cold?”

“The stable is warm enough, and they are Northern horses; born ready. They have thick hair and all. Wanna ride?” Robin offered with hidden excitement.

“Oh, I don't trust horses, remember?”

Robin smiled sneakily.

“But you trust me.”

“Of course,” Strike nodded, matter-of-factly, looking around. There were many horses in the stable, and it smelled of horse and was cosy.

“Ride with me,” Robin tried, looking at him. “You just have to hold onto me, and I'll do the rest. You've never done it, you don't know if perhaps you'll love it... and I think you will.”

“Is that what Matthew said about sex?” Strike commented. Robin rolled eyes. “I'm sorry, Robin... I don't feel safe on them.” Robin shrugged and put her arms around his hips.

“It doesn't matter, we don't have to do it,” Robin smiled, tiptoeing to kiss him, and he smiled against her lips.

“What was it for though?” asked Strike when they stopped kissing.

“Oh, nothing, a cool place I wanted to take you for brownie points,” said Robin without giving it much importance. “Let's go, I'm going to show you the chickens and then grandma said she'd made actual brownies!” Strike laughed, but didn't move when Robin pulled from his hand. She looked at him confused.

“First of all,” Strike pulled her towards him. “You don't need brownie points with me, you have them all already,” Robin chuckled. “And second of all... alright, let's get on Clydesdale. But you'll have to help me!”

“We don't have to do it!” Robin insisted. “Truthfully! I don't want you to have a bad time.”

“I suppose I can't have a bad time as long as I'm with you, can I? And Jack says horse-riding is cool...” Strike shrugged. “I don't trust horses, but I trust you, and if you're with me, what could go wrong?”

“Plenty of things,” Robin smiled. “But alright! We'll do it, you'll see how cool it is, you're going to love it,” she kissed him again, and Strike laughed hearing her squeal as she ran to fetch all the necessary items.

Half an hour later, Strike held onto Robin for deal life, with his arms around her firmly and his chin on her shoulder to hold onto her better, and Robin was beaming, guiding Clydesdale through the snowed hills. It was cold despite their heavy coats, but Robin swore it'd be worth it, and Strike wasn't feeling too uncomfortable. His dick was in a questionable position, he had no control over where was he hitting poor Clydesdale with his prosthesis, but he was impossibly close to Robin, and that was one part he could fancy.

The horse trotted as if he wasn't supporting the whole weight of Strike and Robin, with ease and chirpiness, evidently loving the snow and being outside, and slowly, Strike relaxed and started enjoying the views. They walked through what Strike supposed were actually thin paths that were now hidden beneath the snow, passing leafless trees, small houses, and stone walls delimiting areas of ranching or vegetable gardens, sometimes seeing what Robin informed him was the River Burn. Strike could only imagine that, if it was already somewhere beautiful to be, it must be absolutely stunning in the spring. The trees were enormous and came in dozens, covered in white, and there were many big bushes all white, but in the spring, all was probably green and flowered.

Around an hour later, Strike was starting to feel cramps and too cold, but then, as they went down a hill, a huge, enormous lake came into view and it took his breath away.

“Leighton Reservoir,” Robin announced, turning to grin at him, seeing his surprise. “Told you it'd be worth it.”

“It's beautiful,” said Strike, as if struck by lighting.

“I remembered how when we went to Barrow-in-Furness you were disappointed not to see even a bit of sea, and this isn't really the sea but... it's one of my favourite places up here.”

“Come a lot?” asked Strike.

“When I was younger, mostly. Would ride here a lot,” Robin nodded.

She rushed the horse a little, and Clydesdale speed-up just a bit, until they were at the lake, and Robin helped Strike dismount carefully. While Clydesdale enjoyed getting his paws wet, Strike and Robin stretched the legs, enjoying the view. Strike hugged Robin from behind and she put her arms over his and brushed her cheek with his stubbly one, feeling happy and peaceful right away. They could just take in the view, with the light snowing, the sounds of nature, and it felt like their entire bodies relaxed to it.

“Thanks for taking me here,” said Strike grateful, kissing her cheek.

“Wasn't too bad, wasn't it?”

“It was perfect. You're a wonderful rider,” he complimented, making her feel more cheerful.

“Right now,” Robin murmured. “I don't need anything else in the world.”

That night, the family celebrated Christmas Eve reuniting for dinner at Robin's grandparents' house. Robin's family was pretty big, which Strike enjoyed, even more seeing how everyone seemed to love being in each other's company. He privately asked Robin if this was true or it was just the Christmas glee or to keep appearances in front of Strike, but she confirmed they really all got along, both her maternal and paternal sides. The maternal side was this year spending Christmas with family Down South, so they were in the paternal side's company, but it was okay; Robin got equally along with both, and her dad's was the biggest side.

Michael Ellacott was the son of two farmers Robin had a close relationship with since always; Molly and Arthur Ellacott. They had had their children young, so they were young grandparents. Molly was hippie, funny and eccentric, and Arthur was a handyman, brutally honest and sarcastic. Together they had not just Michael, but also Robin's favourite uncle, Charlie, who worked in the farm as well and was a huge fan of horses, so he took care of them all, along with his wife, Aunt Laura, who was a riding teacher, which was how they had met and, in a cheesy, romantic story, fallen in love and come to be parents of Cousin Katie, Robin's favourite. Katie was married and had a daughter, Nora, while Katie's younger siblings, Sean and, the youngest, Claire, were closer in age to Jon than to Robin.

Aside from Charlie, Michael had two more, younger, siblings; Eleanor worked in Harrogate and wasn't in Masham more than twice or thrice a week, she was on her second marriage, this time to a woman, which back in the day had been a bit of a family shock. They constituted two of Robin's favourite aunts, and were very involved with the art world. They didn't want to have children, so in exchange they had a number of animals that Robin's grandparents included in the category of grandchildren, and of whom they had photographs on the walls and celebrated their birthdays. And Brad was the youngest of the four, and lived in Liverpool. He was a writer, very independent and full of culture, and had a wife and two young fraternal twin daughters, Louise and Marie, that Robin treated more like nieces, due to the age gap.

Strike, after phoning his family to wish happy holidays, hit it off with them right away, reunited around a long table that Grandpa Arthur had build so the whole family could come over as much as they wanted and no one had to eat somewhere else. It was in a big, cosy room with a chimney and many paintings and family photographs, in the rural farm house that Matthew, the family confessed, hadn't felt much affection for. To Strike, he almost cried when he saw it, due to how different it was to any house he had ever visited or lived in. It was just full of life, not just because of the many animals, including birds and a fish pond, that lived there, but because it was warm, cosy, familiar. It was old and decayed at parts, as it was expected of such an old house, but that just added to the country charm, with the wooden chairs from ancient times, the bookshelves full of so many books one could hardly keep count of them, belonging to such different eras and with marks of having been read many times, the smell of delicious food, the marks on the walls and furniture of life; the place where Martin left an imprint of his forehead by force, the corner Rowntree tried to eat as a puppy, the lines of height of Robin and all of her cousins. And there were many memories, photographs and all, and a general sense that all the family members were included; all the diplomas decorated the studio walls, even school diplomas, and there were photos of toothless children everywhere. Strike thoroughly enjoyed getting to see all the different stages of Robin's life, and the moment Grandma Molly put an enormous photograph album just of Robin on his lap, while they waited for dinner and she insisted that he stopped trying to help, because he was their guest.

“I'm serious Doctor, I've broken my arm in fifty places,” Cousin Sean was telling them a joke as they ate. “And he said; well, stop going to those places!”

The table filled with laughter once again.

“These biscuits are delicious Molly,” Linda complimented. Strike, who had eaten about twelve of them, nodded with his mouth full, and Robin laughed, kissing his stuffed cheek.

“Oh, thank you dear. It's all love and hard work to make any mountain easy-peasy, you know it!” Molly smiled happily. “So, what murder is our favourite detective trying to resolve lately, uh?” Molly asked looking at Robin, who smiled in return.

“No murder investigations these days,” replied Robin.

“She's uncovering a business' fraud plot though,” commented Strike. “Tell them, Robin, you came-up with some astounding ideas!”

Encouraged by Strike's admiration, Robin proceeded to talk enthusiastically about their latest investigations, without revealing information that would break the confidentiality agreements, and with Strike chiming in frequently to add something phenomenal Robin had done or give detail about how much Robin's 'bright and smart' ideas had contributed to resolve an investigation. Robin couldn't believe her ears; instead of trying to show-off to her family, Strike was trying to show her off, showing everyone how fantastic and skilled _she_ was, and how necessary she was to their agency, and Robin had rarely seen her family so impressed with her achievements.

“Robin, tell them about the time you kidnapped a murderer in a taxi, that was such an incredible thing to witness,” Strike encouraged when she was finishing, enjoying the faces of her family upon Robin's most impressive moments. Robin blushed and nodded, proceeding with the new, requested story. He was like an excited child on Christmas Day and Robin was happy to comply.

  
  


  
  


 


	18. Oh Christmas

**Chapter 18:**

As they slid into bed later in the night, Robin wearing her most Christmassy pyjamas with reindeer, to Strike's amusement, Robin rolled to throw an arm around Strike.

“Today was the best Christmas Eve I've had in ages,” Robin sighed contently, nuzzling into his neck.

“Mine too,” Strike grinned, pulling her close. “In the summer, I'll take you to Cornish beaches. You'll love it.”

On Christmas Day, Strike woke up to kisses all over his face, and when he opened his eyes, Robin was hovering over him, grinning.

“Merry Christmas!” she beamed. Strike sniggered.

“Merry Christmas, Robin,” he cupped her face and kissed her deeply.

Strike hurried to put on his leg and follow Robin downstairs as she went all excitedly. She didn't remember feeling so excited about Christmas since she was a child, and she had to recognise part of her excitement came from having Strike with her. The couple found the entire family sitting around the Christmas tree with mugs of chocolate, and they soon received mugs themselves.

“Finally, now we can open them!” Martin, who had arrived the day before, exclaimed excitedly. The new parents Stephen and Jenny were double excited because it was their baby's first Christmas, and soon presents were handed to each person.

Strike was surprised to have a handful of packages with cute Christmas wrapping and his name on them, and he soon unwrapped a new, warm pair of gloves, since his were full of holes, black and soft inside, a book about '100 Creepy Historical Stories you knew nothing about', a jumper, a neck pillow for sitting a long time, a bottle of Yorkshire Whiskey, a pack of home-made biscuits, a Christmas card, and a giant, warm, coat-blanket. Strike was pretty sure the gloves were Robin's present, since she had, time before, commented on his lack of a good pair of warm, cosy gloves. These were black, elegant, allowed a good grip and movement, and were very warm.

“Thank you Robin,” Strike smiled, leaning to kiss her.

“I also have something more personal for when we're in private,” Robin murmured before kissing him again. Strike side-smiled, knowing it was nothing erotic but probably romantic.

Strike had gifted Robin something more personal as well, but at the moment she was holding a poetry book Strike had gifted her. It was an old, worn-out version, because it had been one of Strike's favourite books through his teenage years, and Robin was passing the pages and reading some poems for herself with a beaming smile and bright eyes.

“I love it,” Robin had told him, after reading a few poems. “They're beautiful.” It came with a dedication:

_To Robin, who, like these poems, makes my world a bit fuller of magic, beauty and wonder. Merry Christmas. C._

After all the presents were given and breakfast was eaten, they each retreated to their own activities before going to the Christmas Fair together later in the day. Strike and Robin got dressed and took the present they had left for the other before going on a walk around the small town, holding hands, and Strike using his brand new gloves out in the snow. They eventually got to the riverside of Ure River and snuggled on a bench.

“Here,” said Robin, pulling a small bag from her pocket, very tiny, and handing it to Strike. He opened it, and pulled out a brown rough-braided tough woven leather bracelet. It was linked via a stainless steel tube clasp with a button to open, the interior of which had a tiny engraved robin bird. Strike smiled.

“Aw, it's beautiful,” Strike put it on his right wrist, since his watch was on the other one. It was exactly his size. “I like it, thank you.” He said with a smile, kissing Robin.

“I know you're not much of the bracelet kind of guy, but I thought that way, when I'm north visiting my family, you can somehow still carry me for inspiration,” Robin commented shyly. Strike grinned.

“I always carry you with me. You're hard to forget,” Strike wrapped an arm around her and kissed her more intensely. Then, he pulled apart and took a small velvet box from his huge coat's pocket. “I also got something for you.” He gave it to Robin, who opened the box, and then her jaw dropped seeing a silver necklace with a pendant of a raw cut piece of Quartz crystal, that was sea green and heat enhanced. “Alright, this is unrelated to the fact that green fits you like it was made for you, I actually thought... they call it sea green. I'm from a coastal village, my eyes are dark green...”

Robin looked at him beaming for half a second before she collided her lips against his with such force his head was pushed slightly backwards. Strike kissed her back with equal enthusiasm and afterwards helped her put it on.

“I absolutely love it, it's never coming off. Can it be wetted?”

“I suppose, the chain is silver. It looks gorgeous on you.”

“You're such a lovely boyfriend, did you know?” Robin beamed, with her arms around his neck. The pendant fell pointing to the line between Robin's breasts, and Strike had to make an effort not to look.

“Many of my exes would thoroughly disagree,” Strike chuckled. “Although if I'm honest... I do feel like doing things I would otherwise never do, just because it's you. Like... I would've never bought Lorelei jewellery, and even less with personal links. At most I would've asked the lady at the store to give me some nice diamond pendant, impersonal and artificial.” He shrugged. “But you make me want to be cheesy and disgusting.” Robin laughed.

“Yay me!” she joked, kissing him again. “I like this new Strike almost as much as I like my grumpy old bastard of a partner.”

“I can still be old and grumpy,” Robin's laugh was this time, dead against his mouth.

Shortly after, they joined the family to the Christmas service at St. Mary's Church. Robin and Strike hadn't been there since the wedding, since the only Christmas Robin had lived as a married woman had been spent in London, looking for a new house and working hard. Robin was nervous to come back, and as they sat on a large bench, Strike felt it and squeezed her hand.

“You know,” Strike whispered against her ear. “This is the place where I finally realised I wanted to be with you.”

That made Robin stare at him in awe, and for the first time, it didn't matter that there she started a hexed marriage, what mattered was that there, her story with Strike had reached a key point, without which, she didn't know where they'd be.

Later, they joined the family to visit Masham's Fair & Market, and Strike and Robin held hands while curiously looking at the stands of objects and food, and Robin was soon buying Strike some typically Yorkshire pastries and laughing as he ate one from her hand which such enthusiasm he almost bit off her finger. He smiled at her with the mouth so full his cheeks were swollen and white dust from the pastries in his lips. Robin cupped his face and kissed the dust off his lips, licking her own lips afterwards, under the attentive and happy glance of her family, some of which looked aside to provide privacy.

It was dark, illuminated with Christmas lights, and there was a small stage where local bands were playing, so Strike was soon taking Robin to dance and making her laugh with their clumsy i-don't-give-a-shit dancing. His leg was killing him a bit, but so far so good. He hadn't felt so relaxed in weeks. Strike and Robin were just going to join the rest of the family around one of the tables there were around so people would drink and eat from the stands, some of them being mini pubs, when a very drunk Matthew approached them from behind.

“How you dare?” Matthew snapped from being Robin. She turned around and saw he was very drunk, so she rolled eyes. Of course he'd be home for the holidays, visiting his family. Strike scowled looking at him.

“Matthew, go home before you do something you regret. You're clearly drunk,” said Robin keeping her calm. Her left hand was intertwined with Strike's right, and Matthew scowled at it.

“I _am_ home! It's _he_ who shouldn't be here!” Matthew exclaimed, drawing some attention. “You didn't need long before fuck—,”

“You better speak with more respect, Matthew,” Strike intervened looking serious but collected.

“You shut up, I'm talking with my wife!”

“Ex wife, Matthew, do I have to remind you you're adulterous, that you have been for almost a decade and that it's the very first reason why _I_ left you?” Robin retorted.

“I knew you were whoring with him! It has taken you two minutes to run to his arms, if you weren't cheating yourself, uh? Very easy to make it my fault when you were fucking him like the whore...”

“Shut your fucking mouth up,” Strike stepped forward. Robin, who despite angry, knew not to pay attention to Matthew's words, was impressed. She had never seen Strike look at anyone the way he was looking at Matthew, with his eyes nailed on him like a hungry bird, standing cold and distant, his jaw set, and a threatening air that gave Robin chills from being so close. Even Matthew saw something and stepped back, staring angrily at Strike. “If you ever say another word like that to her, I will make sure you're unable to talk properly for the rest of your life.” Strike threatened in a low voice, conscious of the people that had stopped to watch, knowing Matthew and Robin and attracted to the pre-supposed drama.

“Cormoran, sweetheart, there's no need,” Robin put a soft hand on his chest. “Let's just go, Matthew's drunk and being particularly stupid, better to ignore him.”

“Alright,” Matthew glared at Strike. “Let's resolve this like men, shall we? You, after all, are such a man that you went into my wedding to ruin it and steal my wife, didn't you? You should be ashamed of yourself, going around taking women that aren't yours...”

“Women aren't a property!” Strike roared, startling Robin, who started thinking that this wasn't just about her. He was making a general statement against crappy men; the same men that had abused and mistreated his mother and sister. His voice, stronger than Matthew's, attracted more attention. “I didn't steal anything from you, you twat, first of all, you lost Robin on your own because you're a despicable, disrespectful, cheating bastard, and second of all, Robin's not an object to be stolen. She's a wonderful warrior of a lady, and if you had cared to look at what was in front of you instead of getting into some whore's underwear, then perhaps she wouldn't have left you. You are pathetic, Matthew, and don't flatter yourself calling you a man, because a true man would've treated Robin like a queen, and not like you did. You're less than a rat and I feel sorry for any woman that falls into your arms next. Now get your arse out of here before I—”

Strike couldn't finish; Matthew swing a fist to him, but Strike dodged it quickly, and threw his own fist at Matthew's face so fast, no one had time to react. Matthew cursed as his nose cracked and blood dripped on the floor.

“You bloody bastard!” Matthew bellowed.

“ _I_ am the bastard?” Strike shook his head in disbelief. “You dare attack a disabled man, you piece of crap? Next time make sure he doesn't happen to be an ex-boxer and a war veteran, tosser.” Robin looked down at his fist. It wasn't even bruised. To leave it so damaged after hitting Whittaker, he must've hit him many times. _Of course_ , a voice said inside her head, _he's in coma_.

“What's going on in here?” Geoffrey Cunliffe had pushed through the crowding multitude towards them, followed by his daughter Kimberley, her son-in-law, and his granddaughter, Grace, who was asleep on her father's shoulder. “Son! Are you alright? What the hell...” Geoffrey then noticed Robin and Strike. “Robin! What's this about? I thought you had more dec—,”

“Oh, she does, it's your son who hasn't,” snapped Strike. “He tried to punch me and lost.”

“What's the matter?” Linda and Michael had pushed their way through as well. “What's this?”

“Matthew came looking for a fight and being very disrespectful,” Robin replied. “He attacked Cormoran, but he didn't have in count that Cormoran's much more experienced at fights, that's all. Let's go.”

“Oh, no, you're not going anywhere!” Geoffrey scowled, putting an arm around his son, who couldn't speak with so much blood pouring onto his mouth. “I'm calling the police and having this man arrested for assault.”

“Do it,” Robin stepped forward, glaring at Geoffrey. “Do it, and it will take me two seconds to present charges against Matthew for domestic violence.”

“Domestic...?” Geoffrey choked. Matthew glared at her.

“Five years of prison for coercive and controlling behaviour, I'd love to see what the judge has to say about the way he manipulated my laptop and mobile,” said Robin firmly, cold. “One word against Cormoran, and believe me, tomorrow all the papers, if not a judge, will know every detail of all the years I spent with your son, and all the crap he did. Get out of here.”

“If I were you I'd listen, Geoffrey,” Michael intervened. “Because I raised a warrior, not a chicken.”

Reluctantly, Geoffrey convinced his family to go away, and the multitude also dispersed. The Ellacotts and Strike returned to their table and sat down.

“I'm sorry,” Strike quickly apologized to Robin. “You were right, I shouldn't have, I was supposed to keep a clean record...”

“It's alright,” Robin comforted him. “You set him straight, I bet he'll be more careful with his words from now on.” Strike looked relieved that she wasn't furious. Soon, the confrontation was drowned in laughter, good conversation, food and drinks.

  
  


 


	19. What about us

**Chapter 19:**

It was right after New Year's Eve that, as Strike picked up his mail, he noticed an eviction order and frowned. The letter hadn't been there the day before. With his heart in a knot, Strike hurried to his attic, closed the door and sat on the bed. He took a deep breath and opened the envelope. The sender was the developer Strike had been told had bought his building.

_Mr Cormoran Strike,_

_As you might have heard, Denmark Strike 6, like other buildings from Denmark Street, has been bought by us to build more modern buildings, in better conditions, as these are over fifty years of age and in poor state. We intend to reconvert them into flats, shops and offices, as they currently are, but more modern. Once this is done, you will be welcomed to contact us again to rent an office to us, and we will be happy to do business with you._

_For now, we regret to inform you that before February 1 st, you'll have to vacate your attic and office in this building, that will be taken down to be rebuilt from scratch on the before mentioned date._

_We are sorry, but in the current state of the buildings, they have not been evaluated as safe. After a profound examination,our experts have concluded that there is risk of collapse. There are cracks everywhere, the materials are old and worn-out, the pipes are faulty, and the wiring is poorly isolated and installed, not to mention all buildings have leaks._

_For any enquiries, you will be able to contact us at the phone and emails listed below._

_Thank you._

Strike let a long deep breath out, and covered his face with his face. He was homeless and without an office, again. He had lost everything he had worked so hard to build. He couldn't help it when inevitably, he started crying.

When the evening came, as Strike buttoned-up a shirt for a date with Robin, he felt a heaviness in his chest he couldn't hide. He felt lost, like he didn't know what to do. He was too exhausted to think of moving somewhere else, where would he move, with which money. They had sold everything he owned without consulting him nor giving him a penny. It wasn't fair.

Feeling detached from the world, Strike walked slowly towards one of the fancy flats of Earl's Court, in front of Bramham Gardens, wondering how he was going to break the news to Robin. The agency was Strike & Ellacott, he couldn't leave her aside. He had to ruin a date to tell her, or she wouldn't forgive him hiding things for a day or lying for such purpose.

“Hi,” Strike forced a smile as Robin opened the door. She looked gorgeous, and her beaming smile quickly dropped.

“What's wrong?” Robin asked, taking his hands and pulling him inside, giving him a quick peck on the lips. Louis was out that night, although Strike wouldn't have minded if he was there; he kind of liked him.

“I have awful news, I'm sorry,” Strike handed her the envelope he had received. Robin frowned, sitting on the sofa, and read it. When she was done, she murmured 'oh, no' and supported her forehead on her hand. Strike flopped next to her. “The landlord warned me months ago, during the summer, but I hadn't gotten news in a while, so I thought... maybe they won't evict us, you know? But they are. Collapse risk, bollocks.”

“bugger, Cormoran...” Robin hugged his harm and supported her head on his shoulder. “I'm so sorry... will you move in with Nick and Ilsa?”

“And her kids?” Strike snorted. “I'm not sure is a good idea. They're so busy, and Ilsa will be having a second child in just a few months. Besides, Abby is just getting used to them, it'll be tricky to try and put someone else in the house... It'll have to be Lucy's. I need to spend all the money on the new office, can't throw it on my flat. In the positive side, we can get a bigger office, now that we're hiring more people...”

“Why don't you move in here?” Robin suggested. Strike looked at her as if she had said a barbarity. “I know we have only been together for two months and a bit, but we could share my room, you could only have to pay a symbolic prize, or even nothing at all, because technically we'd be sharing my room and I can afford this just fine. We practically live together already, what difference would it make? We always sleep at yours or mine's, barely sleep apart, spend the entire day working together and stay together for romantic weekends. This would just be... a small adjustment. And it doesn't have to be permanent. If either of us gets uncomfortable, we can back down and you go with Lucy. But this place is way closer to areas where we could get a new office, and it's not full of people, a Louis loves you, he won't mind it one bit. And we have a lift.”

“No, absolute not, Robin, living together will ruin...”

“We _do_ live together!” Robin argued. “We spend about eleven hours together every day, without counting nights, don't be ridiculous.”

“I'm not being ridiculous, excuse me if I don't want to ruin our relationship. We are strictly professional at work, Robin, it's not the same than flat sharing, okay?”

“Cormoran, living with Nick and Ilsa didn't ruin your relationship. Spending days together in Barrow-in-Furness and whatnot hasn't ruined our relationship. We will be just fine, and besides, what other option there is?”

“I don't want to live together forced by the lack of alternatives.”

“So live with me because we want to, and if at any point you regret it, I'll help you move your things to Lucy's. Cormoran, we have three weeks to find somewhere else to work, furniture it, and have it client ready if we don't want to lose a week or two of work. There's no more time to look at flats as well.”

Strike let a long sigh out and then nodded.

“Fine, I'll move in. Thank you,” Robin kissed his cheek and caressed his hair.

“It'll all be alright, let's just take things one step at a time. For now, you have an assured place to live, let's have dinner, and we'll get on with searching for an office.”

“Yeah, alright.”

They had dinner without much conversation, both thinking where the hell where they going to go, and then they took Robin's laptop and sat looking for flats. Before they realized, it was nearing one in the morning and they had only found trash online.

“It's useless, Robin, we'll have to walk around and see...” Strike yawned, checking his watch. They had to go to bed. They heard the lock and the door opened, so Louis came in.

“Hello lovebirds! I thought you'd be in bed by now, what's up?” Louis came around, looking curious.

“We're getting evicted from Denmark Street so naturally, we're anxiously looking for a new office with zero success,” Robin explained, pouting at him.

“Aw, what the hell, bird?” Louis sat with them. “Evicted? Why?”

“The building, along half a street, were bought by a developers. They're rebuilding everything,” Strike explained. “Kicking us out next month.”

“By the way, Cormoran's moving in with us.”

“Of course he is, we're not having him on the street! Let me grab my laptop and I'll help you out.”

The three set to work, and after another hour, when they were about to give in, Louis gasped.

“I think this is going to be the one!” Strike and Robin crowded around him. “The other day I did a casting in Covent Garden, and I passed through this street I've never seen before, and they had posters of local for rent, so I was trying to find the street... and here it is. Barley Street. Look at this cute local.”

Barley Street was a small street in the south of Covent Garden, near Leicester Square. The street had its charms; there was a flower shop, an antique store, a grocery store, and a post office. The buildings were of three to five stores, of the old style, with flesh dark brown brick, very similar to their building in Denmark Street, which made Strike and Robin feel fond of it immediately. The local for rent in question was a four floor with lift, with an attic on top and nothing else. The prize was near what they paid in Denmark Street, so it was within the budget.

The website specified that it had first been an office for an architect studio, and it was now vacant. The building was a corner one of mansard roof, with two small offices whose couple windows each led to Barley Street, but the reception's windows led to a small alley. The floors were, except in the bathroom, wooden, and the walls were flesh brick, except for the marble bathroom and the ivory wall paint of the kitchenette. The main door entered into a square room, with space for a couple sofas, a lamp or plants, and a secretary desk, most likely. There was an intercom to open the building door from there, and a built-in bookshelf, although there was space for cabinets if they wanted to put some from the office. The office's furniture was theirs to move around. To the left there were first two small rooms: a toilet and a kitchenette, that didn't have a door, and that had some frosted windows to the inside. The kitchenette, even being a small room, had space for a small table. Then, in front of the main door and next to where the secretary's desk would probably be put, there were two small offices, each with a couple windows from which you could see the green from the top of the many big trees that were in Barley Street.

“I love it,” said Robin with a hint of exhaustion in her voice. “It's cute, and it's not the only office in the building, so neighbours can't complain much. It's more spacious, bigger... so we can let the agency grow, we were cramped lately. And the prize is almost the same.”

“Yeah,” Strike nodded. “Yeah. We'll definitely see it in the morning. Thank you, Louis, you're a life saver.”

“Anytime,” Louis grinned. “I'll write down the information!”

When Robin cuddled into Strike in bed, exhausted, she could see that Strike wasn't falling asleep. She felt him let out heavy sighs, and she frowned.

“Hey, you need to sleep,” Robin whispered, caressing his face in the darkness.

“I think I'm having an anxiety attack,” Strike muttered with a broken voice, as if about to cry. Robin sat up against the headboard and a pillow and helped Strike sit up against her chest, putting her arms around him.

“Take a deep breath,” Robin's breath tickled his ear. “It's fine, just breathe and relax, I've got you.” Strike threw his head full of curls back against her shoulder and for a few minutes no one said anything, until Strike seemed to doze off against Robin, so she helped him lie down again before he fell asleep, and cuddled next to him, putting an arm around his big body. Tomorrow it'd be another day.

During breakfast the next day, Strike looked tired and crestfallen, eating his breakfast with zero excitement, which was unusual when there was a plate of bacon in front. Louis gave Robin a questioning look and she shrugged, sitting next to Strike and rubbing his back with one hand.

“What's wrong?” she asked softly.

“My life hasn't stopped being obstacle after obstacle from the minute one, it never gives me a single break, it took me so much sweat and tears to get that agency going, I had to live in it, I had to work without rest nor breaks for months just to get to the end of the month,” Strike murmured looking absent. “But I did it, Robin. You came around and together, we managed to improve things and make it a wonderful thing. I've had some of my best memories in that flat and that attic, and they both cost so much sweat and tears, I value them tremendously. And after so many obstacles, when things are finally going somewhat smooth, and when my brain is still on recovery and I need to relax the most, after these lovely holidays, some twat comes and buys the building as if it was nothing and my landlord just sells it with zero appreciation for me and my life and my job. They've ripped everything, everything I worked so hard to build, everything that cost me so much sacrifice, away from me, and you know who's made money? My landlord. I've just been kicked out like a rat, zero compensation, zero nothing. All these years — all ripped out as if it was nothing. Even if they meant the most to me, they just took all that was mine, all I worked so hard for, they took it for money and I... I'm just supposedly to go as if it was nothing... just pack my things and...” he clenched his jaw and shook his head, supporting his head on a hand. His eyes were damp and he looked miserable and Robin felt shattered for him. She put her arms around him and guided his head to her chest, letting him breathe onto it as she stroked his hair and back.

“Perhaps Ilsa can help,” Louis suggested, sad for them. “I bet this isn't legal.”

“They've convinced the council hall the building is rotten, worse than it actually is,” Robin said sadly. “The money has been paid, paperwork's done, it's not ours anymore. And there's an order to take it down when February begins. There's nothing to do.”

Robin had never seen Strike so shattered, except for when his nephew had been almost dying in the hospital. Somehow, she understood why he'd feel like crying; out of anger, frustration, sadness. She was miserable herself, and couldn't imagine how he must be, losing his attic as well, and having been the main reason all of that had been kept together over the years. He had sacrificed everything for it, all he had, and this wasn't fair. He had been there for many years, he deserved better. The evict didn't come in the best moment either, not with Strike trying to recover from his own things.

So she didn't expect him to be enthusiastic about Barley Street. The two went there, promising to take pictures for Louis to see, and saw it was exactly what they had seen in the website, which was weird, with the amount of online fraud there was. The walls were Robin's personal favourite, a mixture of brick lining and painted wall that gave it a rustic look she appreciated.

“What'd you think?” Robin asked, following Strike into one of the tiny offices.

“I want us to buy it together,” said Strike all of the sudden.

“Buy it?” Robin asked, surprised.

“I don't want for this to be taken away from us. I don't want no one to come and decide when I get to keep it or not... if anyone wants to buy this building, they'd have to convince us first. No more moving away, Robin.”

“Alright,” Robin nodded. “We will buy it.”

It was an unexpected change of plans, but the owners agreed to sell it. Strike would pay in several times, so it was somewhat like a rental for the sellers, and the prize wasn't too crazy. Strike was dying to move in. It was like a band-aid he needed to rip off, the sooner the faster the pain will pass. Going back to Denmark Street to pack things up was depressing; a ton of businesses, even the music shop, were packing up as well. There were tearful farewells, phone numbers were exchanged, and hugs were given, and Robin helped Strike pack his life. The attic fit in eight books, which was somewhat depressing. Strike didn't want to tell anyone yet, aside from their employees, that had already been informed of Barley's place, so they were alone to do the moving. They'd call a company to move the furniture of the office.

It took only three days to rearrange the furniture in the new office and get a second-hand desk for Robin in what would be her new office. Only when Number 7 of Barley Street was entirely sorted out did Strike and Robin go back to the now empty Denmark Street. Mr Crowdy was just leaving the building with a bunch of boxes.

“Mr Crowdy!” Robin saluted. “Leaving as well?” she added with a sad tone. Mr Crowdy left the boxes on the ground and sighed.

“I'm gonna miss it,” he said looking back at the building. “Well, Mr Strike, it's been a pleasure meeting you,” he smiled, extending a hand to Strike, who shook it, and then Robin, who gave him a hug.

“Good luck,” wished Strike and Robin almost at unison.

“Yeah... you too.”

They went upstairs and saw their empty office. The door no longer had their names, as those had been moved to the new glass door on the new office. The two stood around in the office, mentally saying goodbye.

“It looks so weird so empty. Enormous,” Strike murmured sadly. “Remember? Here is where you stopped me from killing John Bristow.” Robin side smiled.

“And here I received a leg.” Strike nodded. They walked outside.

“And here, we met,” Strike said, standing in front of the stairs. “Seems incredible that it's been three years since.”

“When a door closes, another opens,” Robin smiled sadly, cupping his face between her hands and kissing him. They made out for a few moments, standing in front of their old door. “Well... together?” Strike nodded, and together, they grabbed the door handle and closed it one last time. “Thanks for the memories.” Robin whispered, as if talking to their office. Strike nodded, rubbing his eyes.

“You know...” said Strike hoarsely. “This would be way more heartbreaking if we weren't together.”

“Keep things positive,” Robin nodded. “We are together, and we've always pulled through, together.” Strike could even smile a little, and he kissed her again, feeling a bit less heavy on his chest.

With less sadness in their chests, they scribbled a note;

 _Strike & Ellacott Investigations will now be happy to attend you in Barley Street 7, Covent Garden, London, with the usual schedule. Thank you_.

They pasted the note on the building's entry, and after one last glance, left Denmark Street forever.

  
  


 


	20. Horses are hairy, and so are you

**Chapter 20:**

Living with Robin proved to be a challenge, but not for negative reasons. Fact was, now that they were always together, it was harder to keep hands in place when their kisses got heated, harder not to catch a glimpse of the other's semi nakedness now and then, harder not to give in to temptation. Strike was a very sexual man; his life had always been sexually active, and now it had been around five months without even jacking off, as he didn't feel comfortable doing it behind Robin's back, as much as he knew this was a stupidity. And Robin was, in Strike's opinion, a very sexy woman. She didn't own sexy lingerie, Strike knew, because they had pretty much put her bedroom upside down to reorganise when Strike moved in and Strike had gotten to see all her underwear, not to mention he ironed and did the laundry every now and then, but he thought that was just adorable, and, as he felt her chest against his when they snuggled, it became harder not to do anything.

Result? Strike couldn't be so surprised when, mid January, he woke up with a morning wood. The worst part? Robin woke up before him and against it. At first she didn't realise what it was. She felt something hard against her hip and supposed it was Strike's fist, until she saw his hand covering her own, the other arm under his head, bent. Then, Robin tried to think of other possible explanations, but after having dated Matthew so long, she knew. She tried not to think of the feeling of him, slid away enough to not touch it, and, red like a tomato, woke Strike up. He had been mortified, which had immediately made the event disappear.

“I'm sorry,” Strike apologized for the umpteenth time as he entered the kitchen in the morning and Robin was making breakfast. “I'm really so—,”

“Cormoran, stop,” Robin's lips curved upwards, amused. “I have three brothers and an ex-husband, I know men have morning woods, it's not like you did it on purpose, and besides, it's nothing worse than seeing horses copulate.”

“Talking about dicks this lovely morning?” Louis entered the room, a hand passing through his blonde hair and with a side-smile. “I hope you don't disappoint my girl, Cormoran.” Strike blushed hard to his hairline and Robin laughed.

“I woke up to notice his morning wood and he's mortified,” Robin explained.

“Oh, so you still haven't...?” Louis laughed at Strike's deep embarrassment. “Oh, relax, Cormoran! We're all adults.”

“I'm going to shower,” Strike decided, practically running outside the room.

They decided not to mention the embarrassing event again for Strike's sake and went to work. However, as Robin sat at her desk in her office, supposedly working on her cases, she couldn't stop thinking about the event. She had come to make a decision. She exited her office and opened the next door into Strike's.

“Can I come in?” she asked, seeing Strike focused on a folder full of photographs from cases.

“Sure,” Robin closed the door behind her.

Strike's office was more Strike's than the old one had been, in terms of personality. His desk was on diagonal next to the window, so he could see the whole office with one simple glance, vigilant, and there were fully stocked bookshelves and cabinets and a neatness and lack of photographs or anything indicative of personality that actually said it all about Strike. Robin walked to him and sat on one of the chairs he had opposite himself for clients.

“Need anything?” Strike asked, always professional at work, raising tired eyes towards her.

“Not really,” Robin didn't quite know how to bring it up. “I just wanted to make an announcement, I guess.”

“Alright,” Strike frowned lightly. “What's going on?”

“I want us to have sex. Together. With each other, I mean,” Robin said nervously. Strike's eyebrows raised and his back collided with the back of his swivel chair. Robin was blushing hard and looking at his work. “Tomorrow night, my place, if that's okay with you. Louis has a work party and will sleep at his boyfriend's. You bring the condoms.”

It was an almost formal statement, professional, straight forward, and Strike almost felt like laughing.

“What? But you don't like sex.”

“But you do. I know you've always been quite active, I noticed when you were away with a woman, and I, I want to satisfy you.”

“Robin,” Strike leaned forward and took her hand over the desk. She tentatively looked into his profound eyes. “I will not break-up with you over lack of sex, and I won't pressure you to do it, regardless of what my habits have traditionally been. The main reason I was with those women was for sex, and the main reason I'm with you is because you drive me insane in all the positive ways. I don't care if we have sex or not, I have two hands, you know?” she smiled a little and he gave her a peck on the lips. “You do satisfy me, Robin. You're the best I have, and I won't lose you over sex.”

“You say this now, but you won't stand just jacking off forever, will you? We said that we're together with the intention of always being together, can you even fathom fifty years without sex, for example?”

“You are better than sex, I really don't need anything more...”

“That's what you say now. You won't always think the same, Cormoran, I just know it. Sex is a natural part of the human race, every study says so, and the weird part is when someone doesn't want it, that's the unnatural thing...”

“Fuck sakes, Robin,” Strike sighed roughly. “When are you going to understand that to me you're way more than a vagina and a pair of tits? I didn't have sex for long lengths of time when I was in the army and it didn't kill me, I'm sure I'll be just fine. I certainly won't enjoy getting into bed with you knowing it's going to make you think of rape and attempted murder. I won't consent you suffering in order to pleasure me, your needs don't mean less than mine.”

“Can we at least try? And if it doesn't work, we'll stop,” Robin suggested.

“Not if you're going to be dreading it.”

“I won't be dreading it! It's just...” Robin puffed in frustration. “Look, that son of a bitch has taken enough from me. He took my freedom, my bravery, my independence and stole years of my life, and I want it all back, many things are back, and I don't want to miss what could be a great thing with you just because of him. What if it's different with you, uh? I mean, with Matthew, is not like I had flashbacks or PTSD, is just that it wasn't enjoyable in the slightest, but maybe he was just sloppy and not talented at all, and that's all, so perhaps I just needed a more skilled partner, and I know you're very skilled,” they both blushed.

“I won't ask how you know that,” Strike murmured.

“Better that way,” Robin nodded. “Look, I promise you it's not hard on my brain, I'm not going to panic and freak-out, and if I'm not comfortable I will tell you. But I want to try. I want to see if I can find out what the hype's all about. Besides, you're way more sexy than Matthew uh?” she smiled a little. “And I trust you. You trusted me to try riding and you loved it, and I trust you to try this knowing I'll most likely love it, because it's you. I'm not afraid.”

Strike bit his lip and then nodded.

“But you will be communicative and you will tell me all you like and all you don't even if we're shy,” Strike said, and Robin nodded. “I'll buy condoms.”

“Good boy,” Robin kissed him again.

“By the way, you don't need to shave,” said Strike between kisses. “Hair is the most natural thing in the world, I don't mind.”

“Thanks, you don't need to shave either,” Robin chuckled, kissing him again. He smiled against her lips and pulled apart.

“Are you sure? I've got tons of hair all over...”

“Horses are full of hair and I still mount them,” Robin raised her eyebrows suggestively, joking, and Strike's expression was precious.

“OH MY GOD!” Strike covered his eyes. “Oh, bugger, I didn't need... Ew!” Robin laughed and kissed over his hands.

“See you later, I'm doing surveillance on Graham!”

Strike heard her laugh as she left his office. Strike turned and looked at his prosthesis, supported against the wall.

“This girl is going to kill me.”

Strike had made a point to go to the gym frequently since Robin had gotten married. Not just because he could afford it and because he wanted to get slimmer, in shape, fit, and ready to fight the criminals that they often encountered, but because he wanted to distract himself from the idea that Robin wasn't married to him, and punching something was better than punching Matthew, for the benefit of their friendship. But there was still preparation to do.

 


	21. No more updates

Sorry! Even though this story is complete in my archives, I will not continue to update because I'd rather focus on stories that do have support than throw time away with things people aren't really interested in. Much love!


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